The Genesis Strain
by furygrrl
Summary: Something far worse than death is unleashed upon an unsuspecting world. An Evo homage to Dawn of the Dead and Resident Evil. Eventual pairings and character death.
1. Prologue: Countdown To The End

Title: The Genesis Strain  
Author: fury grrl  
Archive: Just ask first  
Rating: R - language, violence, and gore  
Disclaimer: Not mine  
Summary: Something far worse than death is unleashed upon an unsuspecting world. My homage to Dawn of the Dead, Resident Evil, and survival horror in general. Pairings will become apparent as the story unfurls.

Author's note: I don't like writing accents - despite all good intentions, they invariably become mangled. This fic will therefore be free of them, just so you know. Also, for those of you waiting on updates for either 'A Series of Observations' or 'Trial By Fire', please be reassured that I haven't abandoned them - or you. New additions to both should be available shortly.

* * *

Prologue: Countdown to the End

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania  
June 25th 1:42 p.m.

Graydon Creed, tired of waiting, pulled a gold cigarette case from the inner pocket of his designer suit jacket, and flipped it open.

"You shouldn't be smoking down here," a voice admonished, making him turn to seek its source.

"And _you_ should learn how to tell time, Trask. I've been standing here for ages," Graydon countered, seeing the familiar form of his business partner and fellow mutant-hater step from the private elevator he himself had ridden in more than ten minutes ago.

"You could've just gone ahead yourself, I would have caught up."

"Shit, you know how productivity goes down the crapper when that guy gets irritated. He says he wants a meeting with both of us, so that's what we give him," Creed replied sourly - only to bark out a short laugh a half second later. "I gotta admit, though, that guy's got balls - giving _me_ orders. If it wasn't for that genius I.Q. of his, I'd have fired his ass long ago."

Trask, more envious than admiring of man they were discussing, refrained from commenting, and started to move down the corridor, his ally a step behind.

"So what do you think he's called us down here for, anyway?" Graydon continued, popping a cigarette between his lips and sparking it up with a lighter that matched the case. "Think he's got something to show us already?" The expectant gleam in his eyes belied the bored tone he projected.

Trask debated the question internally for a moment before responding. "I wouldn't put it past him," he said mildly, "but I suppose we'll find out soon enough."

The walk to the main lab, always a lengthy one, had never before been so silent - or so Trask thought as the stillness seemed to deepen the further they progressed, prompting him to mutter, "Where the hell is everybody?"

Graydon, mind on other matters, merely looked up at the sound of his companion's voice, blank expression saying he hadn't been paying attention.

"We haven't seen anyone since we got down here, and it's as quiet as a tomb," Trask went on, the glare he turned on his partner vaguely accusing. "You didn't tell him he could send his team home early, did you?"

"Who? _Me_?" Graydon scoffed, exhaling another puff of blue-tinged smoke. "And waste time better spent on finishing the project? Why would I do something like that?"

"Well, there's got to be some explanation for this," Trask griped, his gesturing hands indicating the empty corridors and rooms devoid of activity.

Graydon just shrugged, seemingly unconcerned.

The two men approached the double doors that led into the main research area and, when they pushed past them, found themselves bathed in near darkness. A single small desk lamp shining wanly from a nearby work table offered the only source of light.

"What the hell is this?" Graydon muttered, crushing his half-finished smoke beneath his heel, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of life.

"Unbelievable," Trask grated, crossing his arms against his chest angrily. "What did I tell you? He's sent everybody home!"

Movement a few feet ahead stirred the darkness.

"An apt way of putting it, Mr. Trask." An amused voice slithered out of the shadows, making both men start. "But as usual, not entirely correct."

Graydon frowned, but it was Trask who spoke. "Is that you, Essex? What the hell is going on down here?"

"Science, gentlemen...nothing more, nothing less," was the soft response.

Graydon was surprised to feel a flush of gooseflesh prickle along his skin at those innocuous words - surprised, and irritated. "Quit playing with me, Essex," he shouted, growing warm with anger. "You turn these lights on and get your ass over here, or so help me -"

Laughter, low and delighted, drifted out of the gloom, cutting the rest of Graydon's words short.

"Mr. Creed, there's no need for idle threats," the voice chided when the laughter subsided. "Especially when I've asked you and Mr. Trask here for a very special purpose."

"What do you mean?" Trask demanded, his curious nature overriding his annoyance. "Does this have anything to do with the toxin? Have you managed to perfect it?"

The shadows shivered again as a figure materialized into view a few paces away.

"Beyond my wildest dreams, Mr. Trask," the person gurgled happily.

Graydon let out a relieved breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding when he was able to clearly make out the form of his Head Scientist. "Well, Christ, Essex! Why didn't you just say so?" he asked, grinning. "Let's go on up to my office and you can tell us everything."

Essex moved towards them like a wraith, his feet making no sound as he approached. "Oh, I can do better than just tell you, Mr. Creed," he said, the lone light not only revealing his smiling face, but the gleaming stainless steel of a needle held in one hand. "And we don't need to go anywhere for a demonstration...right here will do just fine."

Graydon blinked at the man in confusion, realizing too late that the syringe was intended for him.

Dr. Essex struck swift and sure, stabbing the many inches of cold metal deep into his employer's neck, depressing the plunger with a flick of a button. As Graydon's mouth opened in a soundless scream, the needle still buried in the soft tissues of his throat, the doctor turned his attention to a shocked Bolivar Trask - now inching his way back towards the doors.

"Mr. Trask, please join me. I'm sure you'll find the results of my work very interesting."

Trask spun on his heel and ran for the doors, a shout of abject fear issuing from his lips when he realized they were locked.

"Ah...it begins," Dr. Essex murmured approvingly, his eyes now watching something on the floor.

Trask, despite himself, followed the doctor's gaze with panic-filled eyes, a gasp of horror squeezed from his lungs when he saw his business partner and what had been done to him.

Graydon was convulsing wildly, his limbs shaking with seizures, his rolling eyes showing their whites, bloody bubbles gushing from his mouth. The skin not hidden by his suit was slowly starting to blacken and crack, while various fluids, viscous and foul-smelling, began streaming from ears, nose and eyes.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Dr. Essex remarked conversationally, his head cocked thoughtfully as he observed Graydon's death throes.

Trask, on his knees and vomiting noisily, didn't have the means to reply, so Essex continued.

"Far more exciting than your original idea of a toxin specifically designed for mutants, and with far greater potential, wouldn't you agree?" He gazed down almost fondly at his employer - now oozing a yellowish pus-like substance from the fissures spider-webbing his mottled skin.

"W-what the h-hell are you talking about? Anyone can do what you - you just did," Trask blubbered, bile dripping unnoticed from his chin. "A-anyone can k-kill a man."

"Kill? Really, Mr. Trask, you _can_ be obtuse." Dr. Essex chuckled, dipping his hand into the pocket of his lab coat and extracting another needle. "What I have achieved greatly outstrips the banality of death...as you yourself will discover in just a moment."

At those words, at the sight of the needle, Trask was undone by fear. He started crying - pleas, promises, and imprecations all babbling from his quavering lips as he tried to crawl away.

Essex frowned and made a clucking noise, advancing after the slowly fleeing man. "Obtuse _and_ ungrateful," he complained with a shake of his head, planting a foot in the middle of Trask's back and pressing him to the floor.

"W-why are you d-doing this?" Trask sobbed wretchedly, unable to move.

"For the same reason you and Mr. Creed wanted the toxin in the first place," the doctor replied, stabbing the syringe between Trask's shoulder blades.

"To play God."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Essex took the elevator from his blood-splattered sub-level lab, and emerged, cool and composed, on the first floor of International Pharmaceuticals. He strode down a carpeted hallway with tasteful corporate art hanging at regular intervals, passing smartly dressed people who were completely ignorant of what went on in the 'basement', and eventually found himself in the tidily kept shipping office. 

"Yes, Dr. Essex. What can I do for you?" inquired a young woman seated behind a desk, her bubble gum pink nails pausing over the computer keyboard she'd been typing on.

"A shipping form, please," Essex said with a smile, taking a pen from his shirt pocket.

The girl nodded and fetched him one, returning to her interrupted work while he filled it out.

"That should do it," he murmured several minutes later, laying the completed sheet on the woman's desk.

She glanced at the paper, her eyes widening slightly when she saw what he was requesting. "Wow...Chicago, New York, Miami, London, Amsterdam, Tokyo, Sydney..." She looked up. "There's at least a hundred hospitals and clinics here. You need something shipped to _each_ of them?"

"By tomorrow," Essex confirmed.

The girl gave him a skeptical look.

"It's a direct order from Mr. Creed and Mr. Trask."

At the mention of company's co-owners, the girl blanched and quickly reached for her phone. "Consider it done."

Essex merely smiled his gratitude and headed back to his lab, his special shipments requiring some alteration before delivery. He stepped into the elevator and swiped his clearance card through the reader, waiting for the doors to close before pulling a small vial of amber fluid from his coat pocket and holding it up to the light appraisingly.

"Soon," he cooed, fingertips caressing the slim vessel almost lovingly. "Everything will end."

He laughed in his eagerness and his mask of humanity slipped a fraction, baring unnaturally sharpened teeth and eyes that gleamed with a faintly reddish hue, his countenance altogether sinister.

"Yes, it will end...and the greatest experiment this world has ever known will finally begin."


	2. The Calm Before The Storm

Title: The Genesis Strain  
Author: furygrrl  
Archive: Just ask first  
Rating: R - for language, violence, and gore  
Disclaimer: Not mine

* * *

Chapter One: The Calm Before the Storm

Residence of Sara Grey  
New York City, NY  
June 26th 5:50 a.m.

The first morning of Jean Grey's summer vacation dawned just like any other.

A golden wash of early sunlight sparkled on the eastern horizon, breakfasting birds were greeting the waking world with song, and the warm cocoon of sleep that still blanketed the rest of the house was as thick and as comforting as it had always been.

Creeping down the stairs to the lower level of the house, wrapped in a light cotton robe, Jean smiled at that last notion. At the Institute, her mornings were anything but peaceful and quiet; with more than a dozen teenagers in residence, wishing for otherwise was just that - a wish. She padded barefoot through the hall that led to the spaciously remodeled kitchen, nothing more pressing than thoughts of coffee and a toasted bagel on her mind, when the unexpected sight of her sister, dressed and eating, brought her to an abrupt halt.

"Sara, what are you doing up so early?" Jean asked softly, fighting the urge to yawn.

Sara, the elder of the two by almost a full decade, glanced up from her bowl of cereal. Seeing that it was only Jean, she smiled. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?" she teased, shoveling the last bite of food into her mouth and rising from the table before she'd even had time to swallow.

"I'm still running on Institute time," Jean admitted ruefully. "My brain hasn't come to grips with the concept of sleeping in yet. What's your excuse?"

"The hospital paged me about half an hour ago, said that Emergency started filling up last night and hasn't stopped, said they're desperate," Sara explained, placing her bowl in the sink while looking over her shoulder at the redhead watching her. "And if they're calling on a lowly second year intern like me, they must be."

Jean made an amused sound and began preparing a pot of coffee. "Spare me," she said, spooning heaps of fragrant grounds into the filter basket. "Everyone knows how amazing you are already - full-fledged doctor or not."

"Yeah, well they could've picked a better day to prove your sweet, yet obviously biased sentiment," Sara grinned, slipping the metal chain that her hospital badge was clipped to around her neck. "I had the entire day planned - shopping, lunch downtown..." She paused, a vaguely disappointed look crossing her face. "I had a special dinner arranged for everyone tonight, too." She bit her lip. "I was going to introduce you all to a...a friend of mine."

Jean, in the midst of slicing a sesame-topped bagel, dropped the knife to the countertop and spun to stare at her sister with barely concealed delight. "You've got a boyfriend!" the redhead gasped.

"Maybe...maybe not," Sara replied enigmatically, her innocent expression spoiled by the not so innocent smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. "Either way, now you'll have to wait until I get back from work to find out."

"Sa-_ra_!" Jean whined, her pleading green eyes following her visibly pleased sisterto the front door.

"Later kid," Sara said, stooping for the paper on the small porch. "Tell mom and dad I'm sorry about today, and that I'll see them tonight."

And with that, she was gone.

* * *

The morning stretched into a lazy and uneventful day that saw both Jean and her parents sticking close to Sara's renovated townhouse. With the person they'd all come to visit absent, no one felt much like venturing out to shop or sight see, preferring instead to wait for their missing family member so they could all enjoy New York together. Their decision to stay in reaped some small reward, as the blue sky filled with sickly, bruise-coloured clouds sometime after lunch, a thunderstorm following shortly thereafter, flooding the small backyard garden and knocking out the power. 

"Well, so much for my soap opera," Elaine Grey grumbled when the television winked out.

"I'll go look for some candles," Jean murmured, gratefully laying aside the trashy romance novel she'd started reading for lack of anything better to do.

After much rummaging, the young telepath finally located a box of tapers better suited to the dining table, and, to crows of relief, a deck of playing cards.

"And I'd like your solemn oath that there will be no cheating this time, Princess," John Grey admonished, wagging a playful finger at his daughter as his wife began to deal hands.

Jean managed a guilty grin as she nodded, remembering the last family poker game where the lure of using her telepathy had proved too difficult to resist.

John merely shook his head, amused. "You and Xavier," he told his daughter, tone fond. "Like two peas in a pod. Did I ever tell you about the time I caught him using that remarkably unfair ability of his to beat me at chess when we were at college together?"

And so the afternoon continued; games of Rummy and Crazy Eights peppered with stories and much laughter, despite the lack of electricity and lousy weatherthat refused to abate. When Jean's cell phone rang in the middle of another of her father's tales concerning himself and a youthful Charles Xavier, she was almost prepared to ignore it - almost.

"It could be someone from the Institute," she said by way of apology as she interrupted her dad to take the call. "Hello?"

"Jean?" Kitty's voice crackled through the receiver.

"Oh hey, Kitty. How was the flight to Chicago?" Jean inquired, rising from the table and heading into the shadowed living room.

"I wouldn't know, I missed it," Kitty complained through the static. "And now thanks to this storm, I don't know if I can get another one before tomorrow."

Jean sank into one of Sara's overstuffed armchairs and turned her gaze out the front window. "Is that what the gate attendants said?" she asked, watching rivulets of water streaking down the glass.

"Yeah right, like I could get a straight answer out of them," Kitty scoffed. "All they've said is to keep checking the schedule monitors for any changes - which, by the way, are all flashing big red 'pending' messages after every flight." She let out a disgusted snort. "Remind me to kill Evan when I get back from Deerfield, okay?"

Jean frowned, slightly confused. "Evan? What's he got to do with this?"

"My sitting here instead of at home is all his fault. He borrowed his parent's car last night and then conveniently fell asleep at a friend's house. He got home late this morning just as Ororo was calling for an cab. Like, can you believe how _lame_ this is? The whole reason Ororo and I stayed over at his place was so we'd be _on time_ for our flights!"

"And this is the same person who was finally judged responsible enough to stay home alone for the next two weeks?" Jean sighed, once again wondering why Evan always had to screw things up. "Did Ororo and his parents miss their flight too?"

"No," Kitty grumbled. "They're probably closing in on Africa as we speak."

Jean couldn't help but smile at her friend's sulky tone. "Poor Kitty, do you want me to come get you?"

"Would you?" Kitty asked, tone hopeful.

Jean laughed outright. "Of course I would, you twit. And so would Evan - if you didn't let on that you'd rather skin him alive. No one expects you to sleep at the airport," she teased. "Do you want me to drive over now?"

"No, you don't have to rush. I think I'll wait a little longer, see if the weather improves," Kitty replied. "But I'm glad to know I can call if it doesn't."

"Always," Jean assured her.

Kitty sighed with relief, and by the time the two girls said their good- byes a few minutes later, the young brunette's outlook was definitely brighter. With a shake of her head over her friend's predicament, Jean snapped her phone shut and reentered the kitchen just in time to see her mother return the house phone to its wall-mount.

"Another call?" the redhead asked, rejoining her father at the table.

"That was Sara," Elaine reported, brow furrowed with concern. "She said that the storm and the blackout have really made things difficult at the hospital and that she doesn't know when she'll be home. I suppose we should go ahead and eat without her."

As John excused himself to wash up, Jean watched her somewhat distressed looking mother begin gathering up the scattered playing cards from the kitchen table, the silence stretching between them making the redhead suspicious.

"Did Sara say anything else, mom?" Jean asked, taking the cards from her mother and sliding them back into their package.

"No, dear," Elaine replied a little too lightly, bringing a candle with her as she walked to the fridge.

Jean followed her, a knowing look on her face. "Mom?" she pressed, touching the older woman's shoulder.

Elaine, scanning the contents of the darkened refrigerator, didn't look at Jean when she spoke. "Your sister said that some of the patients were behaving...strangely...violently."

"Is Sara alright?" Jean asked, immediately fearful for her sister.

The fridge door swung shut as Elaine finally turned, leveling a fretful look at her youngest child. "I don't know. She said something about people coming in half-crazed and sick, attacking nurses and other patients, and that she and a paramedic had been bit by some man." She shook her head, unnerved. "She told me not to worry, that it was just a scratch, but even still..."

"My God," Jean breathed. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"Because of your father," Elaine huffed, her frightened look beginning to dissipate. "You know how he gets whenever he thinks one of you girls is in trouble. If I told him what Sara said, he'd fly down to that hospital and drag her home, internship or not."

"Well shouldn't he?" Jean demanded. "Shouldn't we be more -"

"So, what's on the menu?" John's voice chimed in, blithely unaware of the mood in the room as he strode over to his wife.

Jean stared at her mom, the look in the elder Grey's blue eyes speaking more loudly than words could have. _Sara's a grown up now, she can take care of herself... _they seemed to say. The redhead sighed, feeling the truth behind the unspoken comment. "Anything in danger of spoiling," she answered her father, not at all comforted by the imperceptible nod of approval from her mother.

In fact, as she stood watching sandwiches being made, and her father dig into a melting carton of ice cream with unabashed enthusiasm, a fluttering sense of unease started to uncurl in the pit of her stomach, making her queasy. Whether it stemmed from concern for her sister or something else entirely, she didn't know, but either way she'd lost her appetite.

"Umm...I think I'm going to skip dinner," Jean announced, backing away from the counter.

"Not hungry, Princess?" her dad asked, his eyebrows wiggling comically as he waved a tempting spoonful of chocolate ice cream in front of her face.

Jean shook her head and gave him a weak smile. "Nah. I think I'm just going to go to bed, get some rest for our day out tomorrow."

"But it's barely past eight, Jean," her mother protested, only to be shushed by John.

"She's still a growing girl, Lainey. You know how teenagers need their beauty sleep." He winked at Jean and stuffed the spoon into his mouth.

Grateful for the escape, Jean kissed both of her parents goodnight and, a candle levitating behind her, walked to the stairs that would take her to one of the guest rooms. Once she was alone, she put her phone on the nightstand in case Kitty called, pulled off her clothes, and donned her summer nightgown. As her fingers tied the ribbon closure at her throat, she gazed out the large window that looked into the street below, noting for the first time just how eerie the cityscape seemed without lights to keep the pressing darkness at bay.

"Be safe Sara," whispered from her lips before she even realized it.


	3. On The Threshold

Title: The Genesis Strain  
Author: furygrrl  
Archive: Just ask first  
Rating: R - language, violence, and gore  
Disclaimer: Not mine

Thanks to A. Ceretta and Purity Black. Your encouragement is appreciated!

* * *

Chapter Two: On The Threshold

Xavier Institute for the Gifted  
Westchester County, NY  
June 27th 4:22 a.m.

Scott Summers was roused from deep, dreaming slumber by a gentle hand shaking his shoulder.

"Scott, wake up. The Professor wants to see us downstairs."

Eyes that had the power to blast through walls blinked open groggily at the quiet voice, their destructive optic beams kept in check by the ruby-quartz sleeping goggles that had recently replaced his everyday - and decidedly less comfortable - sunglasses.

"Rogue?" Scott murmured, finally focusing on the girl standing at his bedside. "What's wrong?"

"Just get up," the southern girl whispered, heading back towards his open bedroom door and motioning for him to follow.

After a glance at the clock on his nightstand, Scott threw back his blankets and hurried after her, knowing that only something important would prompt the Professor to drag either of them from their beds at such an ungodly hour. "What's going on?" he asked, catching up to Rogue at the top of the stairs.

"I'm not sure," she admitted, running a gloved hand through her hair as they descended. "Mr. McCoy knocked on my door about five minutes ago, told me to get you out of bed, and for both of us to meet him and the Professor in the hangar bay right away."

"The hangar?" Scott frowned, pausing in the kitchen to grab a quick glass of water.

Rogue shrugged, watching him drink. "As long as it's not the Danger Room," she said with sleepy vehemence, stifling a yawn.

A faint smile flickered across Scott's lips at her words. "I don't think we have to worry about one of Logan's sessions for at least another couple of days - not after the way you tore into him yesterday." He placed his empty glass in the sink and the pair resumed their journey, stepping into the hall elevator that would take them to the mansion's underground levels.

"Well, what kind of sadist schedules training at 5 a.m. the first day of summer vacation?" Rogue grumbled defensively, arms crossing against her chest.

Scott shook his head, his smile growing. "I just can't believe you threw your alarm clock at him."

"He deserved worse...interrupting my dream like that," she muttered, realizing belatedly that she'd spoken her thoughts aloud when she caught sight of Scott's curiously amused expression.

"Must have been some dream," he remarked, fully grinning now as they entered the cavernous chamber that housed the Blackbird. "Was I in it?" he added in a teasing tone.

The pink heat of a mortified blush erupted across Rogue's too-white face, even as the truthful response to that oh-so-innocent, unknowingly hurtful jest trembled on the tip of her tongue, begging to be blurted into existence. She dropped a step behind him in her embarrassment and pressed her lips together tightly to avoid adding to it, for once thankful of Scott's mutation and how it camouflaged her heightened colour.

_Always, Scott..._ echoed wistfully inside her head. _But until you're over Jean, that's the only place I can be with you...in dreams..._

The black wings of depression fluttered through her at that thought, chasing away the tiny spark of pleasure being in Scott's presence never failed to kindle, leaving her sullen and suddenly cold. The need to return to her room, to be alone with her unhappiness, welled up forcefully inside her, emotions only the appearance of the Professor quashed. Recalled to the possible seriousness of the matter at hand, she gave herself a shake to clear her mind, and joined Scott just as their mentor did.

"Good, you're both here," Xavier started off, his tone unusually brusque and his face pale. "I'm afraid I have some very disturbing news to impart, and not much time to deliver it in."

Scott and Rogue traded looks of concern with one another, Xavier's voice pulling their eyes back to him.

"Hank received a call from the CDC an hour ago -"

"The Center for Disease Control?" Scott interrupted.

"Yes, they need his help," Xavier nodded. "I will be accompanying him, while you two," he continued gravely, "will remain here."

"But sir! Rogue and I can be suited up in - "

"No arguments, Scott. Not this time," Xavier warned, cutting off his student's protest mid-word. "If the information Hank's contact relayed proves even partially accurate, then it would be far too dangerous to bring either of you along. I won't risk it."

Scott seemed unconvinced. "With all due respect, sir, we're X-Men. We take our chances every minute of every day." He began ticking points off on his fingers. "The Brotherhood, Magneto, The Acolytes, Apocalypse, not to mention all those anti-mutant groups who'd love to see us dead. What could possibly be more dangerous than what we've already come up against?"

Xavier shook his head slowly as his lips quirked into a small, sad smile. "Scott, there are still some things in this world that even the X-Men can't stand against."

"Like what?" Rogue asked uneasily, her fingertips unconsciously toying with one of her pajama sleeves.

"A virus," rang a voice from behind teens. "The likes of which the scientific community has never encountered before."

Turning, Rogue and Scott saw the familiar blue-furred form of Hank McCoy lumber in through the open hangar doors, a large box perched on one shoulder, a specially reinforced bag containing his laptop slung around the other.

"A virus," he continued, loading the unmarked box into the Blackbird, "that was first reported less than eight hours ago, and has since surfaced in more than a dozen major cities worldwide. No one knows how it started, how many people could be infected, or even how it's transmitted. The only thing that _is_ known is that it's spreading quickly." He approached the now silent trio, bestial face grim. "If it's not stopped soon, we could be looking at the worst pandemic the world's ever seen."

"Oh no," Rogue breathed, stunned.

Hank patted her shoulder awkwardly. "Hey, I said _if_ it's not stopped. The Professor and I are going to do everything in our power to see that it is, but that means paying a visit to Atlanta and learning more about what we're up against – which, at this point, given the limited amount of information available, I've yet to determine."

Scott was quiet for a moment, digesting his instructor's words, before he glanced back at the Professor determinedly. "If the situation plays out like Beast says it might - if things are _really_ bad out there, all the more reason we should go with you."

"No, Scott."

"You might need our protection! What if -"

"I said no." The Professor didn't yell, but he might as well have.

Scott slumped, crestfallen at the man's refusal.

"Now, there are a few more things you need to know before we go," the telepath went on as Hank took the grips of his wheelchair in either paw-like hand and steered him towards the jet. "Neither one of you is to leave the mansion for any reason until we return. I've activated the primary defenses as a precaution, so that means even the estate's grounds are off limits, is that understood?" The teens nodded. "I pray matters don't deteriorate to where you'll need them, but the codes for the DEFCON sequences are behind one of the wall panels in my study - do you remember which one, Scott?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, but you'll need this to get to them."

A small brass key was placed in the center of Scott's palm as he stared, stricken, at the man he very nearly considered a father, his expression plainly saying that he feared for him. Unsurprisingly, Xavier seemed to pick up on his charge's worry, and, with a reassuring smile, took Scott's hand in his own, gently forcing the boy's fingers to curl into a protective fist around the key. "Don't lose it," he softly admonished as he drew his hand away, their eyes connecting meaningfully despite Scott's goggles. "I'll want it back when I return."

"When you return," Scott echoed quietly, watching as first Xavier, and then Hank, disappeared into the jet, the ramp rising up behind them and locking into place.

Rogue, not a little scared herself and unsure of what else to do, hesitantly slid her gloved hand into Scott's free one and gave it a squeeze as the Blackbird's engines whined to life. With his attention fully on the two faces that could be seen through the cockpit windows, Scott didn't seem to notice her gesture. Disappointment flared, and Rogue tried to pull her hand back, only to have Scott's fingers spasm around hers at the movement, his grip suddenly going tight.

And so they remained, holding fast to one another as the Blackbird taxied down the short runway and through the large metal doors that slid open at its approach, the rumble of the waterfall just without mixing with the aircraft's to form a deafening cacophony of sound.

When the doors shut, and the jet was gone, Rogue looked to Scott. "I'm sure they'll be fine."

Scott huffed out a sigh and, still clinging to her hand, started to move out of the hangar. "Yeah, I guess so," he replied shortly.

Never one for pep talks, Rogue decided to say nothing further, simply contenting herself with peeping at him covertly from the cover of her long, white-streaked bangs, enjoying the feel of his fingers interlaced with her own - until a belated realization tickled the back of her skull.

One very important person - the fifth member of their shrunken, summertime family - had not only been absent from the hangar meeting, but hadn't even been mentioned at all.

Perplexed, the southerner slowed, then stopped in her tracks.

"Umm...Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"Where do you suppose Logan is?"


	4. When Nightmares Walk

Title: The Genesis Strain  
Author: furygrrl  
Archive: Just ask first  
Rating: R - for language, violence, and gore  
Disclaimer: Not mine

Yrch Monger - Thanks for the review - and the stars. I've never received 12 at once before!

* * *

Chapter Three: When Nightmares Walk

New York City, NY  
June 27th 6:01 a.m.

Jean woke from a fitful sleep with a start - heart hammering against her ribcage, eyes wide, her entire body surging with terror-induced adrenaline.

_Something's wrong...something's wrong...something's wrong..._

The words echoed repeatedly through her head, forcing her from her bed and to her feet, her legs wobbling unsteadily as she tried to move faster than her still sluggish system would permit. She staggered to the window and clung to it, her gritty eyes searching the outside world for the source of her fear.

The sky without was clear and tinged with the pinkish blush of the rising sun, the storm clouds of yesterday having followed the night's path and departed, the only sign of their passing in the large puddles that dotted the road below. Birds were chorusing from the trees that lined the street, heralding the new day and a pre-dawn jogger with equal gaiety.

It was a morning just like any other.

Jean sagged into the windowsill with weary relief, a long breath exhaling from her lungs.

_I must have been having a nightmare..._ she thought to herself, running a trembling hand through her mass of disheveled hair in an attempt to smooth it from her face. _But if it was only that, only a bad dream, why am I still feeling so..._

She never finished that thought.

A cry from the kitchen below echoed up the stairs, making her jump and sending her pulse tripping wildly again.

_Mom and Dad!_

The words blazed through her mind like fire, and she ran, her chest tight with panic as she flew down to the first floor and into the kitchen, only to find her hurried entrance the source of her parent's vaguely amused stares.

"What's going on? What happened?" Jean demanded, taken aback by the sight of her mother standing in front of the stove, apron around her waist, spatula in her hand. "I thought I heard a scream," she added, looking to her father who was calmly sipping from a mug, his paisley printed pajamas peeking out from beneath his robe.

"Oh, I'm sorry darling, I didn't mean to wake you. I just splashed some hot oil on my hand," Elaine apologized, flipping a pancake. She turned to give her husband an affectionate smile, her words still directed at Jean. "Your father thought it might be nice for Sara to come home to her favourite breakfast after such a grueling night."

"She's not home yet?" Jean asked as she took the chair opposite her father.

"Not yet, Princess," John sighed, the mug of coffee rising to meet his lips.

Jean, still watching him, saw his gaze leave her face and focus on something beyond the sliding glass doors behind her, the mug poised in front of his mouth untouched, his eyes narrowing as he squinted.

"What on earth..." she heard him say before the mug fell from his grip, smashing against the tiled floor, his eyes gone wide. "My God! _Sara_!"

Jean leapt up from her seat and turned towards the view of the backyard, a cry of shock wrenched from her throat when she finally saw what had so upset her father.

Sara, still dressed in green doctor's scrubs that were now torn and bloody, was banging feebly against the thick glass doors with dirty, scrabbling hands. Her face, obscured by shoulder-length brown hair that looked stringy and damp, was hidden from the family members inside, though the pained moans emanating from her could be heard by all.

After a moment of stunned disbelief, Elaine and John both rushed to the doors, the former crying out at the sight her daughter presented, while Jean remained rooted to the spot, her initial concern for her sibling fading beneath the resurgence of that earlier sense of terrible wrongness. "Something's not...right," whispered through lips gone instantly numb, her words too quiet for anyone to hear.

The patio doors were pulled open and Sara was brought into the kitchen, a parent holding fast to each of her arms as they helped her inside.

"What happened?" asked one.

"Are you alright?" asked the other.

"Something's not right," Jean repeated inaudibly as she began backing away, the fluid in her veins gone to ice water without reason, stealing her voice, preventing her from going to help her sister.

In days to come, when she was able to review the details of the events that followed with a clearer mind, Jean would come to understand and appreciate that instinctive prickle of wariness more fully. As it was, at that moment, it was the only thing that saved her life. Even with her mutant abilities, even with that stabbing sense of foreboding, even with skills honed by Logan and more Danger Room sessions than she cared to count, Jean was unprepared not only for the speed of her sister's assault, but also for its horrifying results.

Sara had barely set foot into the kitchen when she suddenly thrust her father away from her, the violent move sending the older man reeling against the counter and stumbling to the floor. She ripped her other hand free of her mother's grip, and, as Jean watched, paralyzed, curled her fingers into rigid talons that were raked across Elaine's face.

Jean's mother screamed.

Her father, climbing awkwardly to his feet, screamed.

The sound coming from Sara's gaping mouth might have been a scream, but it was too soon drowned out by the liquid, tearing noise of rending flesh as Sara's teeth sunk into her mother's throat. Blood spurted like a fountain when Sara pulled back, glistening gobbets of flesh dangling from her reddened mouth like hunks of newly ground hamburger meat. She chewed them, the flaps of flesh oozing a steady stream of purplish fluid that streaked over her chin and soaked into her shirt, and then, swallowing, she dipped her head back towards the grievous wound for more.

"Lainey! _**Lainey**_!" John was up and moving, running towards the thing that was his daughter like a tackling football star. "Get away from her!" he shouted at Sara, one arm taking hold of her hair, the other coming to wrap around her neck, yanking her so forcefully away from Elaine that he overbalanced, sending both father and daughter to the slick tiled floor in a heap.

Jean watched things unfold with the hazy detachment of a waking dreamer, too sluggish to move, too cold for emotion, too deep in shock to grasp what she was witnessing. She stared uncomprehending at her swaying mother, now gasping like a landed fish as foamy pink froth bubbled at the corners of her mouth. She saw the ruined flesh of the woman's throat, saw her life's blood begin to slow to a trickle as it finished pumping free of the torn jugular, saw her eyes, already glazing over with death, roll back in her head as she fell. It was that slow crumpling of her mother's slender frame that jarred Jean back to some semblance of awareness.

Only vaguely cognizant of her father grappling with the wild creature that wore her sister's face, Jean took mincing steps towards her mother, bare feet slipping in the pools of sticky wetness that had already begun to cool. She knelt, blood soaking into her nightgown, and reached out to touch her mother's pale face.

"M-mom?" she whispered, hearing her voice as if it were coming from a great distance away. "Mommy?"

When there was no response, Jean's throat constricted tightly, and a burning wetness pressed from behind her eyes, blurring her vision and making her blink rapidly.

A cry of pain bellowed from behind her and Jean glanced up, the two people thrashing a few feet away from her finally swimming into focus.

"D-daddy?" Jean's quivering lips formed the word, but no sound issued forth.

Sara had overcome her much larger, stronger father, and was now sitting on top of him, straddling him grotesquely as she used her teeth with deadly efficiency to strip away layers of neck and facial skin. His heels drummed a rapid tattoo against the gore-covered floor as he continued to scream, his arms waving ineffectively to either side of his body as his first born fed.

A white-hot rage streaked through Jean's system at the sight, sharpening her mind and, for the moment, burying her fear. Her forgotten powers surged under skin like a fever, and all at once she was on her feet, bristling with crackling energy.

"Get away from him, Sara," she ordered in a choked voice.

Sara didn't move.

Their father was growing quiet, his legs and arms reduced to twitching feebly.

"_**I said get away from him**_!" Jean screamed, reaching out with her telekinesis blindly.

The Sara creature was ripped from John's body and thrown head-first into a china cabinet on the other side of the room. Heirloom plates and expensive crystal slid from their shelves, exploding discordantly when they met the floor, a stunned Sara dropping amid the shards of broken glass when Jean's hold faltered.

Sliding through the rusty puddles now covering the most of the floor, Jean scrambled to her father's side, the tears that threatened only moments before now spilling down her cheeks and onto his mauled face when she saw the same mask of death her mother wore creeping over his features.

"Oh God..._Daddy_," Jean sobbed, desperately checking for a pulse she knew was fading.

Her father's eyes fluttered weakly at her voice, and one of his hands rose to touch hers as it felt at his neck. "Run," gurgled thickly from his lip-less mouth, his muscles beginning to spasm. He coughed, spraying Jean's chest with dark blood before his hand fell away...and then he moved no more.

"No - _NO_!" Jean cried, taking handfuls of her father's robe and shaking him, wild with disbelief.

A moan floated through the stillness, raising the hairs on Jean's arms and immediately stifling her grief. Fearing that Sara had revived, she slowly rose into a crouch and peered over at the slumped figure of her sister, bile, hot and swift, filling her throat when the devastating results of her telekinetic attack were revealed.

Sara was now a broken thing; contorted and lying face up, her open, unseeing eyes stared like milky marbles at the ceiling she'd just painted the weekend before. Fluids leaked from her crushed skull, spreading like tiny rivers through the vast lake of duller blood, bits of bone and brain gleaming starkly white against the red.

The moan came again, louder this time and from the other side of the kitchen, drawing Jean's horrified gaze away from her sister. "Mom!" she breathed, a frantic hope clutching at her vitals.

On hands and knees, she clambered through congealing blood and rounded the counter that hid her mother's body from view, just as Elaine finished climbing unsteadily to her feet. A dizzying rush of incredulous relief flared at the sight of what surely had to be a miracle, only to fizzle painfully when Jean was able to see her mother's face clearly.

Eyes bleached the same unnaturally pale shade as Sara's were staring out the open patio doors vacantly, and her mouth, hanging slackly, was dripping reddish streamers of saliva that dribbled down her chin. That the flesh of her throat still hung in tatters, framing a gory hole so deep that Jean could see a silvery speck of spinal column winking at her from within, was only secondary to the inhuman visage that Elaine Grey now wore.

Jean knew that what stood before her wasn't her mother - at least, not anymore.

Another moan, this one deeper pitched, whined from the direction Jean had just come from, and with muddled understanding she knew that whatever had possessed her sister - and now claimed her mother, had found a home inside the shell of her father too.

But there was no time to mourn or ponder such horrifying knowledge.

Elaine's dead gaze, drawn by her husband's groan, suddenly shot to Jean's crouching form, a light of intent interest washing away the vacant blankness of only seconds before. With a hungry howl and surprising speed, the creature lunged for the redhead, only to crash harmlessly into a hastily erected telekinetic bubble.

Bracing herself against the sturdy counter, Jean climbed to her feet, her haunted face dripping with tears as she watched her newly woken father shuffle towards her. When his equally alien countenance joined the slavering face of her mother still trying to force her way through the mind-induced shield, Jean could feel something within her come tenuously close to snapping, a brittleness that if she but yielded to it, would fully break and allow her to surrender.

_Sara, Mom, Dad...they're all gone...I'm all alone now..._

The bizarre urge to laugh roiled sickeningly in her stomach as she continued to stare at the things that had once been her parents.

"But...I suppose I don't have to be," she whispered sadly to the creatures, placing her fingertips against the inside of her barrier, matching up to those of her father's.

It would be easy enough to let the shield fall...to reach out and hug her mom, hug her dad, one last time before they -

The shrill music of a cell phone blared from upstairs.

"Kitty," Jean murmured, an image of her friend - of all her friends in Bayville - suddenly flooding her head and chasing away the suicidal fog that had taken her unawares. She snatched her hand away from the shield's edge, aghast at what she'd been considering, and shoved her parents away from her with her mind, telekinetically gaining the second story before either of them had even landed.

Once in her room, she frantically grabbed for the phone she'd left on the bedside table - but it was too late; the ringing had ceased. A glance at the caller I.D. showed Kitty's number flashing, the little red icon blinking next to those digits indicating she'd left a message.

Thunderous crashing from downstairs halted her trembling fingers before they could push the message retrieval code, reminding her that getting out of the house and finding some kind of help was her first priority. Panicked all over again when the sound of feet pounding on stairs reached her ears, Jean scrambled to the window and wrenched it open, using her teke to hold herself aloft as she slipped outside.

Out of habit, she propelled herself towards the cover of nearby tree branches to prevent anyone below from seeing her defy gravity, only to realize belatedly -and with no small measure of sinking despair - that hiding her powers was going to be completely unnecessary.

Living nightmares were running through the streets in the guise of people, chasing terrified neighbours, family members, and strangers alike, bringing each down with bloody hands and gnashing teeth, the screams of both predator and prey filling the air like a soundtrack of death. Even as her widening green eyes looked on, Jean could see innumerable horrors unfolding in every direction.

_There_ - a frenzied driver crashes his car into a lamp post and is yanked, shouting and cursing, through his cracked windshield, several blank-eyed, blood-soaked people falling upon him ravenously before he's thrown to the ground.

_There_ - a mother with two crying children in tow is racing out of her house and away from a gore-spattered husband already in pursuit, none of the three managing ten steps before falling to one of many circling, maniacal neighbours.

_There_ - down the street, a man steps onto his porch with a rifle in his hands and begins shooting both the living and the recently dead with gleeful abandon, his hoots of psychotic laughter echoing as loudly as each burst of gunfire does.

Glass shattering directly below Jean's feet drew her attention from the macabre insanity unfolding all around her, and she looked down, seeing that her mother had managed to break open the front door. Both wife and husband were now standing on the porch.

Another scream rang out from down the block, attracting her father's interest. His head snapped up, like a dog scenting the air, and then he was darting away, running towards the source of cry. Jean's mother, seemingly deciding to search for quarry of her own, dashed off in the opposite direction, her feet flying in death like they never had in life.

Jean watched them go, overwhelmed with feelings of grief so sharp they left her gasping, before deciding that it was time for her to leave as well. If what had happened to her family - and was currently happening to the doomed residents of Lennox Street - was spreading throughout the city, then she needed to get to her friends.

Casting one last despairing look to the crowds below, to the people still in danger, to the people who were already dead and dying, to the people not even all her power could help, Jean drifted a little higher into the sky, and flew away.


	5. And Then There Were Two

Title: The Genesis Strain   
Author: furygrrl   
Archive: Just ask first   
Rating: R - for language, violence, and gore   
Disclaimer: Nothing's mine - not Coca-Cola, not Ford, not the skate park 'Common Grounds', and especially not Evo. Pity...

Thank you reviewers! This is my first foray into horror, so your feedback means a lot.   
Purity Black - As for your question, all I can say is... ::insert evil, maniacal laughter here:: :)

* * *

Chapter Four: And Then There Were Two  
  
The Daniels' Residence   
New York City   
June 27th 7:10 a.m.  
  
Evan Daniels felt a finger dig into his ribs.  
  
"Dude, get up."  
  
He groaned and rolled over, but the finger and the voice persisted.  
  
"Dude, get _up_!"  
  
"Lemme 'lone," Evan grumbled, pulling his blanket over his head. "Sleepin'."  
  
"Yeah, well thanks to all those damn police sirens, I can't," the voice complained, tugging the blanket away. "So get your ass _up_!"  
  
Evan grumbled something unintelligible, but refused to open his eyes.  
  
"You asked for it, buddy," the voice sighed in amused resignation.  
  
Something wet and decidedly cold splashed across Evan's upper body, shocking him to wakefulness. "Tucker!" he shouted, jumping out of bed, his fingers hurriedly wiping down his bare chest in an attempt to brush away the liquid. "What the hell's your problem?"  
  
Jason Tucker just grinned at his friend, an empty - though still dripping - can of Coke in one hand.  
  
"You better hope that shit doesn't stain," Evan warned, finally realizing what he'd been doused with, his angry eyes going to his spotted sheets. "My mom'll kill me if those don't come clean."  
  
"Oh, chill out, Daniels," Tucker chided, flicking the can into the wastebasket with a snap of his wrist. "Your parents haven't even been gone one full day yet, and already you're worrying."  
  
"Yeah, well if they come home and find this place trashed, my days as a house sitter are over. They'll never let me stay here alone again."  
  
Tucker rolled his hazel eyes and reached for the T-shirt he'd left at the end of his sleeping bag. "You know what you need, man?" he challenged, voice muffled under folds of fabric.  
  
"A new best friend?" Evan quipped sourly.  
  
Tucker made a face. "Ha-ha. No, stupid - a good skate to help get rid of all that negativity." He stood up and grabbed the baggy jeans he'd left draped over Evan's desk. "We could take your parent's car, fly down to Common Grounds, skate the runs before anyone gets there, and then wait for some of the ladies to show up so we can impress 'em with our killer moves."  
  
"Ladies like...Stacey?" Evan queried slyly, scrubbing a hand through his bleached hair.  
  
Tucker shook his head in vehement denial, but wasn't able to hide his sudden blush. "No way man - Stacey Mitchell? Are you crazy?"  
  
"Like a fox, bro. That's how I know you've got it bad for that girl."  
  
"Do not!"  
  
"Do too!"  
  
"Do NOT!"  
  
"You do too, man! You were checking out more than just her moves when she ran the course last night - don't deny it."  
  
"Whatever," Tucker finally surrendered, his harassed expression morphing into curiosity as he looked towards the window. "Damn, another siren. Must have been an accident nearby or something..."  
  
No longer listening now that the argument was won, Evan moved towards his closet and started to pull articles of clothing from their hangers, tossing the shirts that didn't meet with his approval onto his unmade bed. "Common Grounds sounds good, though," he said without looking back at Tucker, his eyes weighing two of his favourite basketball jerseys critically. "I'm just gonna take a shower and then we can -"  
  
A loud pounding at the front door downstairs cut off the rest of his sentence.  
  
"Tuck man, can you get that?"  
  
"You should, dude, it's your house."  
  
"Yeah, but I'm not dressed and you are."  
  
Tucker sighed tragically, swinging Evan's bedroom door open, the pounding from the first story - now louder, more insistent - coming again. "Fine, but it better not be some salesman - or one of those damned religious freaks. Those assholes can never take a hint."  
  
"No worries, bro. Just use my patented, never-fail method guaranteed to get rid of solicitors, telemarketers, and preachy whack-jobs," Evan said in a lecturing tone, a mischievous sparkle lightening his dark coffee-coloured eyes.  
  
"Which is...?"  
  
"Tell 'em you worship the devil, works like a charm."  
  
Tucker choked out a laugh. "Unless a pact with Satan is what they're selling," he joked, his words ending off in a 'Hey!' of surprise when a set of car keys came flying at his face.  
  
"So tell 'em to sign us up for the monthly newsletter," Evan teased, "and while you're at it, see about scoring us some grub."  
  
"Breakfast Burritos - extra hot sauce?"  
  
"Give the man a prize, he knows what I like." Evan crowed jovially, disappearing into the bathroom that adjoined his room as Tucker left.  
  
He locked the door behind him out of habit, hit the play button on the CD stereo sitting on the counter, and dumped his clean clothes next to it. Loud music burst from the stereo's speakers and filled the room, replacing the sound of Tucker charging down the stairs, the rapid paced, contagiously up-beat song urging him to bob his head in time.  
  
He moved towards the bathtub and twisted the taps, activating the showerhead when the water had warmed to a comfortable temperature. Then, stepping into the spray of liquid, his blue boxers left lying like a puddle on the fuzzy oval bathmat, he started washing away the tacky residue of dried soda from his skin.  
  
His thoughts of how to spend another glorious day without responsibilities or parents drifted along with the deafening music, wrapping him in a pleasant haze of inattentiveness, preventing him from noticing the first heavy thumping at the bathroom door a few minutes later.  
  
It wasn't until he started rinsing away the soap that slicked his torso, and the CD quieted to skip to the next track, that the booming noise registered in his ears.  
  
"You back already, Tuck?" Evan hollered in surprise over the new song that blasted from the stereo. "Just gimme a sec - I'll be right out."  
  
He reached for a bottle of shampoo, only to hear the thumping continue unabated.  
  
With a sigh, Evan twitched the shower curtain back an inch and reached a dripping hand over to the stereo's pause button. When the music died, he tried again.  
  
"I'll be right out, bro!"  
  
There was no response; just the insistent pounding of fists slamming against the door's other side.  
  
"Dude, are you deaf? I said I'm almost done!"  
  
The door started to rattle on its hinges.  
  
Muttering a curse under his breath, Evan snatched a towel from the nearby rack and climbed out of the tub, securing the swath of beige fabric around his hips. He stepped over to the door, clicked the lock off, and turned the knob.  
  
"Alright, alright! But if you needed to go so bad, why didn't you just use the bathroom down -"  
  
Evan had only started to open the door when it was pushed inward, the body slamming into his cutting off his words and sending him sprawling backwards. He met the floor, and pain exploded - from the elbow that struck the edge of the toilet, from the side of his head when it cracked against the lip of the bathtub, and from the gouging fingers already digging into his neck.  
  
"Tucker! Get the fuck off me, man!" Evan cried, groping blindly for the hands clawing at his skin while his eyes tried to blink through a curtain of receding stars. " What the hell's gotten into you?"  
  
Tucker, thickly garbled noises issuing from his mouth, pressed his attack. His fingernails raked furrows into Evan's chest, deep enough to draw blood and a shocked scream from the boy underneath him, a scream that sounded again - high pitched and pain-filled - when his teeth found, and bit into, the juncture between Evan's neck and shoulder.  
  
"TUCK-ER!" Evan roared, both in agony and disbelief, as the teeth began gnawing furiously, worrying his flesh like a dog would a bone.  
  
With panicked tears flooding his eyes, and a surge of survival-bred adrenaline shooting through his veins, Evan began fighting for all he was worth, grappling with his friend's hands, trying to push the other boy away, until some dark, inner instinct took hold of him.  
  
Evan screamed, but this time it was a cry of rage.  
  
Spikes made of bone suddenly erupted from every inch of his skin, as sharp as knives, and just as lethal. They burst out of him - and straight through Tucker's body.  
  
Evan felt his childhood friend shudder against him, felt the teeth above his shoulder bite down weakly once more, and then Tucker's movements stilled completely.  
  
For the space of many heartbeats too rapid to count, Evan simply lay under the dead boy, eyes wide and unseeing with shock, breaths coming in ragged gasps. When he realized that the warm wetness sliding over his skin was, in fact, Tucker's blood, he reabsorbed the bone blades and hastily rolled the limp body off of him, rising to his knees as hot tears coursed down his cheeks.  
  
"Oh Tuck...I'm sorry," Evan whispered through trembling lips. "I'm sorry..."  
  
Puncture wounds gaped like little red mouths down the length of Tucker's body, the blood oozing out of them already staining his jeans and brown T- shirt with dark spots. Spikes had also passed through face and skull, disfiguring both. Where there had once been laughing hazel eyes, only sockets of pink jelly remained, and an open mouth, gaping slackly in death, revealed blood-rimmed teeth and the stump of a tongue.  
  
Evan's eyes narrowed through his tears, seeing the insides of his friend's ruined mouth.  
  
That's not something I did... he thought, shocked enough for detachment.  
  
And then something strange about the body clicked.  
  
"Tucker wasn't wearing a brown shirt," he murmured to himself, noticing bits of green - the true colour of the garment - mixed among the darker shade. He stretched out a shaking hand and touched the shirt, his eyes squeezing shut against a rush of vertigo when he realized that the green had been over-saturated with the deeper colour of blood.  
  
Needing to know what had happened to his friend forced his hand to move, and Evan peeled the shirt back fearfully, immediately wishing that he hadn't.  
  
Tucker's stomach had been replaced by a large, raw hole; the flesh so deeply penetrated, so horribly stripped, that the pinkish-white gleam of lower ribs and the tightly packed coils of looping intestine below were visible.  
  
Evan stared at the sight for a few seconds, and then calmly recovered the damage with the sopping fabric, violent shivers beginning to sweep over his near-naked skin. He sat that way for a few moments, until, without warning, he turned his head to one side and threw up. Not having eaten since the night before, the burning spasms were short-lived, and when they'd subsided, he shakily rose to his feet, taking the counter's edge in a death grip as the room began to spin dangerously.  
  
The sound of running water broke through his stunned state, and he vaguely recalled that he hadn't turned the shower off. A glance in the partially steamed mirror hanging over the sink told him he should take advantage of the water; he looked as if he'd been dipped in blood.  
  
With hands that still shook, Evan untied the gore-spattered towel from around his waist, and tossed it over Tucker's battered face, reentering the jet of gushing water once he was free of that sightless, accusing stare.  
  
The red sluiced away in the company of tears hotter than the water as Evan cried, not able to understand what had just happened, not able to grasp the concept that his best friend since second grade was lying dead just beyond the curtain.  
  
He turned the water off, then climbed from the tub, his movements jerky and robotic. A fresh towel somehow found its way into his hands, and he dried his body before pulling on the clothes that still sat, untouched, on the countertop, his insides as numb as his emotions were.  
  
It was while he fumbled with the button-fly of his pants, absently wondering what he should tell the police when he called them, that he heard something crash downstairs, followed by a shrill howl that had his hackles up in an instant.  
  
Evan shot a glance at his dead friend.  
  
Someone messed him up before I did... his inner voice reminded him, filling him with equal parts rage and grief.  
  
Heavy footsteps, sounding like thunder, echoed down the hall, getting closer by the second - but this time, Evan was ready.  
  
As if channeling some measure of the far-distant Wolverine's ferocity, bone spikes, each a foot in length and sharper than razor blades, burst free from the knuckles of either hand, ready for launching.  
  
"Come get some," Evan growled with deadly sincerity, boldly moving back into his room to meet whatever might charge through his open door.  
  
He didn't have long to wait, as first one, then two, mangled and bloodied people burst over the threshold, the man in the lead shrieking with mindless hunger when Evan was spotted.  
  
"Bite _this_!" the young mutant yelled, horrified by the sight of the maniacal things that had surely mutilated his friend.  
  
A spike suddenly blossomed in the center of the first creature's head as Evan cast it, sending the man stumbling backwards and into the person behind him. The second thing didn't even seem to notice the threat Evan presented, and simply clambered over its fallen companion, gibbering madly.  
  
"Mrs. Silvestri?" Evan croaked weakly, taken aback to see that his next opponent was the little, old, Italian lady he'd lived next door to all his life.  
  
But the kindly wrinkled face that had always had a smile for him over the years was gone, replaced with something twisted and terrible, made all the more so by the blackened, blood-encrusted holes where her nose used to be.  
  
Evan closed his eyes and fired.  
  
There was the sound of a body thudding to the floor, and then nothing - nothing but the pulse pounding like drums in his ears, and the rasping breaths struggling to and from his lungs. He slumped next to his bed, heartsick, dazed, and utterly spent.  
  
A floorboard in the hallway creaked.  
  
"No more," he gasped brokenly, even as another bone dagger slid silently from his wrist. He looked up at his doorway.  
  
There was hesitant movement, like someone creeping, and a flash of something red. It was enough.  
  
"LEAVE ME ALONE!" Evan screamed, flinging the spike viciously before burying his face in his hands, overwhelmed by the stench of blood and the sight of death.  
  
There was a moment of silence, and then...  
  
"Evan?"  
  
A voice, soft and sweetly familiar, called to him, sliding like a silvery dart through the haze of grief that surrounded him, forcing him to look up. His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits, then widened in incredulity when the person standing nearby didn't vanish like some impossible dream.  
  
"Jean?" he breathed, still disbelieving as he pushed himself to his feet.  
  
Jean nodded and lowered her outstretched hand, releasing her telekinetic hold on the bone spike she'd caught in midair. "It's me," she said simply, taking a step towards him.  
  
She didn't get any further, as Evan rushed to throw his arms around her, engulfing her in a tight hug, a gesture Jean returned with interest, holding him close. They stood that way for a few seconds, until Jean finally, regretfully, pulled away.  
  
"What are you doing here?" Evan asked before she could speak - not really caring about the how or why, just grateful that she was.  
  
Jean shook her head and grabbed for his hand, her voice urgent. "I'll tell you later, right now we don't have much time. More of them are coming."  
  
"Them?" Evan asked before he realized what she meant. "No. No way," he protested, allowing her to lead him down the stairs. "Do not tell me more of those - those _things_ are running around out there."  
  
"I'm afraid so," Jean murmured, pausing in the foyer, watching for any signs of a threat beyond the smashed front door.  
  
"What...what the hell are they?" Evan asked, feeling glass and splinters of wood prick his toes through the thick socks he wore. He scanned the floor around him, but couldn't see either of his shoes.  
  
Jean glanced at him from over her shoulder, her green eyes dull with sorrow. "I don't know," she admitted softly, giving his hand a squeeze. "The only thing I do know," she continued, "is that we need to get to LaGuardia as quickly as possible."  
  
Before he could question further, she crept out onto the wide cement steps that led to the sidewalk, Evan right behind her, and erected a teke shield around them both.  
  
_'Follow me...and don't let go of my hand.'_  
  
The telepathic words echoing inside his head, coupled with the sudden, savage tug on his arm, sent Evan into startled flight. He raced alongside his teammate, keeping a firm grip on the fingers interlaced with his own, and saw they were headed towards his parent's black Ford Explorer parked on the opposite side of the street.  
  
Something jumped out from behind another car as they approached, screeching and waving arms that looked as if they'd gone through a meat grinder. It bounced harmlessly off of Jean's barrier before it got too close, but its cry attracted the interest of other lurking predators.  
  
"I can keep them off of us for a few minutes, but not much longer," Jean said when they reached the car, motioning for Evan to unlock the door.  
  
Evan nodded, dug into his pockets - and found them empty. "Oh shit," he moaned, looking back to his house. "The keys are in my bathroom, in Tucker's...in my dead friend's pocket."  
  
"Well, we can't go back now - there are too many of them between us and the house. If I get the car open, can you get it going?"  
  
"I'm - I'm not sure. When I screwed with Scott's car, I had those instructions Kurt downloaded."  
  
Jean, already busy with keeping half a dozen creatures from penetrating her shield, simply gestured at the vehicle, popping the locks of the two doors nearest to them. "Give it a shot," she ordered, scrambling into the back seat.  
  
Evan did as he was told. He climbed into the leather-upholstered interior and used a slender bone spike to pry open the molded plastic under the steering wheel, his fingers immediately digging through the nest of wires that bulged out.  
  
"How's it coming?" Jean panted a minute later, beginning to feel the first stirrings of strain as the swelling number of monstrosities tested her strength.  
  
"Another minute," Evan's muffled voice called back. "I hope," he added, too low for Jean to hear.  
  
He'd found the wires he'd been looking for, stripped away their rubber casings, and was now trying to get them to show signs of life. "C'mon, spark, damn you," he commanded nervously, the wails and howls of the murderous crowd outside intensifying with every passing second.  
  
Time ticked on, the circling maniacs ringed the car in rows three bodies deep, and the shield began to shrink ever smaller.  
  
"Evan...hurry." Jean was gasping now, beads of sweat gathering on her upper lip as she tried to keep her thoughts together. "I can't hold..."  
  
Like a miracle, a spark danced between the metal threads in Evan's hands, and the sound of an engine roaring to life directly after was so unexpected, it startled him. His body jerked, smacking his already sore head against the steering wheel, and sending a searing pain from his bit shoulder lancing through his chest.  
  
But he ignored both. The Explorer was running!  
  
He tied off the wires and sat up, looking to Jean, grimly triumphant.  
  
"LaGuardia?" he asked her, taking the wheel in both hands.  
  
Jean nodded and smiled weakly, turning her attention back to the mangled people still shrieking for their blood. Her eyes narrowed, and her fingertips flicked outward, toppling the heavily pressing crowd like a stack of dominoes.  
  
Evan didn't need to be told twice. He floored the gas pedal, crunched the tires over the bodies too slow to get out of the car's way, and sped off down the street.  
  
Jean sagged wearily into her seat, one hand clutching at her throbbing head. Her eyes were on the path ahead, though, and despite the discomfort, she maintained her connection with her telekinesis, prepared for anything that might present a danger.  
  
"You thinking about stealing a plane?" Evan suddenly blurted into the new silence.  
  
Jean blinked at the back of his head in confusion. "What?"  
  
"At LaGuardia? That's why we're going there right? To get a plane or a helicopter or something?"  
  
"That's not a bad idea," Jean murmured, waving a hand at a trio of creatures that had started running towards the moving vehicle, pushing them back from the road and through a store window. "But no," she continued, relieved to see no signs of pursuit. "That's not the reason."  
  
Evan swerved around a flaming car wreck, and then another. "Then why?" he pressed, meeting Jean's eyes in the rear view mirror.  
  
Her reply was as grimly determined as the look on her face.  
  
"To find Kitty." 


	6. Survival Is The Only Plan

Title: The Genesis Strain  
Author: furygrrl  
Archive: Just ask first  
Rating: R - for language, violence, and gore  
Disclaimer: Not mine

A/N - I'm fairly certain that Lance wasn't born/raised in Deerfield, but Evo stuck him there (or Northbrook, as they'd named it) for simplicity's sake, and I have chosen to do the same. He therefore regards it as his 'hometown' for the purposes of this fic.

A. Ceretta - you are too kind! Thanks for the lovely compliment! :D

* * *

Chapter Five: Survival Is The Only Plan

The Brotherhood of Bayville Boarding House  
Westchester County, New York  
June 27th 8:42 a.m.

Lance was unable to sleep.

Awake since the first few streamers of sunlight had crept like thieves through the holes in the battered shade covering his window, he'd simply lain in the tangled mess of his sheets, gazing up at the peeling paint of his ceiling blankly.

_Bet Kitty's already in Deerfield by now..._

The sudden thought of his ex-girlfriend - and his ex-home town - took him unawares. He glanced at the second-hand clock perched on his windowsill, noting the time with a wry smile.

_She's probably still sleeping, though...the mall there doesn't open for at least another hour..._

Slowly, the smile faded, and Lance eventually sat up, swinging his feet to the floor and raking a hand through his unruly hair.

"Not gonna think about the past today," he muttered to himself, vaguely irritated as he stood and stretched. "That crappy town, that hellhole of a foster home, me and Kitty..." he shook his head. "They're all ancient history."

He pulled on his favourite jeans, threadbare and comfortable, and topped them with a faded gray T-shirt. His customary denim vest - originally a jacket that had, at some point, lost its sleeves - he left hanging on the back of his closet door. If the warm breeze drifting through his slightly open window was any indication, then the day was going to be plenty hot enough without him adding extra layers.

Socks were donned, the boots he'd left at the end of his bed were laced up - a ritual ingrained after too many barefooted encounters with Todd's slime puddles - and black, finger-less gloves were secured around each wrist before Lance was ready to leave his room.

He headed into the communal bathroom to complete his morning ablutions, and for the first time, noted just how quiet the rest of the house was.

_Everyone must still be sleeping..._ he decided with a shrug, beginning to brush his teeth.

When he made his way down the stairs a few minutes later, though, the distinct sounds of the television could be heard, making him annoyed all over again.

"How many times do I have to tell those morons that leaving the t.v. on all night wastes money?" he grumbled, brought up short when a glance into the living room revealed all four teammates - awake, and glued to the glowing screen.

Smelling brewed coffee, and realizing that whatever his friends were watching was apparently more interesting than his arrival, Lance continued on into the kitchen. As he searched for a clean mug, panicked voices, police sirens, and screams drifted out of the otherwise silent living room.

"What kind of garbage are they watching now?" he muttered, sniffing the carton of cream warily before splashing some into his cup.

He strolled back towards his friends as he sipped his liquid breakfast, catching glimpses of the images on the screen as he approached. What he saw made him snort in amusement.

"Real nice guys," he drawled, shaking his head reprovingly when four startled faces finally turned to look at him. "Horror movies first thing in the morning? What's the matter, cartoon violence not doing it for you anymore?"

Fred, Todd, Pietro, Wanda...they all stared at him, silent and tense, before opening their mouths and talking all at once.

"Geeze, man, you scared us! What the hell -"

"It's everywhere, yo! We're all gonna -"

"Where have you _been_? Don't you know what's -"

Lance could only hear snippets from each in the resulting babble - with the usual exception of Pietro's furiously flying words, too fast for normal ears to comprehend - and he raised his hands for order.

"Whoa! Hold on a sec!" He hollered above the din. "Now," he went on when the noise had receded, "one at a time. What's going on?"

Pietro took a deep breath, about to launch himself into another speedy explanation, only to have his sister beat him to the punch. He scowled at her, but it went ignored.

"Someone left the stupid t.v. on all night - _again_. It woke me up - _again_. So I came downstairs to turn it off - _again_!" The accusing glare that Wanda shot at both Todd and Fred changed into something unreadable when she turned back to Lance. "And that's when I saw this."

She raised the remote and used it to crank the volume, leaning away from the set so Lance's view of the screen - currently running a news broadcast - was unimpeded.

_**"...to remain calm. Military personnel have been dispatched to bolster police presence in areas that have been hardest hit by the unexplained attacks, and will be assisting residents as the mandatory evacuation order goes into effect across the nation."**_

The graying anchorman's voice continued even as the camera's view went from studio to live coverage.

Lance felt his mouth open in silent shock.

_**"Once again, a state of emergency has been declared, as horrific violence rips through cities across the country, and around the world. The government, now acting under the direction of FEMA - the Federal Emergency Management Agency, has halted all means of international transport, sealing off borders into Canada and Mexico, and shutting down shipping harbors and airports. The decision came too late for at least two commercial flights out of Los Angeles, which, according to the FAA, crashed just minutes after take-off. There is no word yet on how many aboard were killed."**_

Aerial views of several different major metropolises were being relayed from helicopters, each one flashing in rapid succession across the screen, all showing the same earmarks of an ongoing crisis.

_**"No official statement has been made as to the cause of the widespread chaos as of yet, but eyewitness accounts have led many to speculate that a possible viral outbreak is responsible. The governing committees of both the Center for Disease Control and FEMA have discounted the reports as unsubstantiated."**_

The cameras continued to roll, showing countless fires filling countless skies with clouds of oily, black smoke, police and army barricades that bristled with uniformed men sporting heavy assault weaponry, and masses of panicked people surging through streets like tidal waves of humanity.

Lance took it all in, stunned by the turmoil that had unfurled while he'd slept unawares, and now, gripped the populace. He sank to his knees next to his friends, and did the only thing that he could: continued to watch.

_**"Residents of large urban centers are asked to proceed to the nearest government-sanctioned shelter in their area, and to avoid all contact with anyone behaving in a suspicious, or erratic manner. People residing in outlying communities are advised to remain indoors, ensuring that all doors and windows are locked, and to stay tuned to their local news provider for further instructions should they become available. The public is asked to remain calm. Military personnel have been..."**_

The images of bloodied, screaming people disappeared, and the anchorman's ashen face returned, this time to a halved screen, as one side began rolling names and locations of the aforementioned shelters. When he started to repeat the same accounting of events for the second time, Lance snatched the remote from Wanda's limp grasp, and pressed the 'mute' button, his action greeted by a chorus of protests.

"I don't want to hear anymore," Lance told them vehemently, setting down his coffee to scrub an agitated hand across his face.

"What do you think we should do?" Wanda asked quietly.

"_I'll_ tell you what I think we should do," Todd interjected before Lance could answer, a wild gleam in his wide, golden eyes. "I think we should get the hell outta here while we still can."

"Me too," Fred seconded, the untouched sandwich on his lap a testament to the large boy's fear.

Lance looked to Wanda for her contribution, but she merely shook her head, sighing out her uncertainty.

Pietro made a sound of angry disbelief. "Weren't any of you _listening_ to what that guy said?" he demanded, flinging his arm in the direction of the television. "Planes are falling out of the sky! The army's been let loose! People are rioting and dying and - and - maybe even infected with something! It's dangerous out there, and not just for us mutants anymore!"

As Todd and Fred both started to open their mouths to argue, Lance put his hands up again to forestall them. "Pietro's right," he told them firmly. "We can't afford to run blind, there's no telling what we'll be up against if we do. We need a plan."

Lance rose to his feet and winced, feeling the uncomfortable prickle of pins and needles run through his legs, incurred by his awkward kneeling position. He moved towards the front window in an effort to walk the sensation away, glancing at Pietro over his shoulder as he did. "Can you contact Mag - I mean, your father?" he queried, stumbling over the always strange, familial title. "He might know what's going on, or at least point us towards a secure location where we can hide out for a few days."

"I already tried, before you came down," Pietro huffed, giving his sister a wary, sidelong look. "I used the number he left in case of an emergency - and if this isn't one, I don't know what is - but it wouldn't go through. It didn't ring, it didn't disconnect...it just dialed into dead air."

"Typical," Wanda snorted, staring once again at the silent television.

Todd and Fred exchanged frightened looks before the former put forth a tentative "Now what?"

Lance sighed and slumped against the wall, hands in his pockets, mind churning, trying to figure out just that. He stared at the people who had, in the few years since his arrival in Bayville, become the closest thing to a family he'd known, and somehow, without intention, his responsibilities. It was in remembering those two crucial facts that made his decision.

"Alright," he announced, his dark eyes suddenly hard and serious. "This is what we're gonna do. First, we need to -"

A shrill scream sounded from outside, cutting him off and making everyone jump.

"W-what the hell was that, yo?" Todd stammered, backing further into the room and away from the window, even as Lance hurried to peer out it.

"I don't see anyone..." Lance murmured at first, until his visual search caught a flash of movement further down the underdeveloped block. He squinted at its source, then felt his lips twist with rancor. "It's _her_ again."

"Who?" Fred asked around a mouthful of remembered sandwich.

"That blonde woman a couple of houses down," Lance replied, holding back the tattered curtain with one hand for a clearer view.

"The one with all the tattoos?" Fred asked.

"One for every boyfriend in prison..." Pietro muttered under his breath.

"The one that sunbathes topless in her front yard?" Todd snickered.

"No matter how many times we ask her _not_ to..." Pietro added.

"The one that's been trying to get my worthless brother into bed since she moved in?" Wanda chimed, leveling a sweetly malevolent smile at her twin.

Everyone started laughing at Pietro's sputtering protests except for Lance, who was striding purposefully to the front door. "Yeah, _her_," the rock tumbler snapped, hand on the knob as he glared at his friends. "She's also the one who seems to like violent guys - or black eyes, I haven't figured out which, yet."

"Hey!" Todd called out, hopping after his retreating form. "You're supposed to stay inside!"

"I will," Lance hollered back, marching down the street. "_After_ I take care of that piece of garbage beating on her!"

Fred and Wanda crowded behind Todd, now crouching in the doorway, and the three of them watched as Lance closed in on what appeared to be some kind of domestic dispute, though the scraggly shrubbery bordering Blondie's lawn made it difficult to tell.

"Shouldn't one of you go help him?" Wanda finally asked.

"Who? Lance?" Fred scoffed, already heading back into the living room. "The only one who's gonna need help is that other guy. Lance don't like seein' women get smacked around."

"And besides," Todd continued, his arm snaking around Wanda's waist. "If we left, you'd be unprotected, sweetums. I wouldn't want to risk that."

The unwanted endearment, the repulsive touch; both were usually dealt with swiftly - and accompanied by a hex bolt - but, at that moment, recalling their potentially perilous situation, Wanda didn't have the heart for either. Instead, she favoured the smitten boy with a weak smile, and a simple, almost sincere "Thanks, Todd," before pulling away.

Todd stared after her, eyes wide and rapturous, until her odd behaviour finally registered. "Oh man," he groaned, face crumpling dejectedly. "She didn't hex me, didn't insult me..." He shut the door and hopped back into the house.

"It must be the end of the world, yo."

* * *

As Lance approached the blonde woman's house, a slow-burning rage began to infuse him. 

The urge to help her didn't stem from any affection for the woman herself, but rather from the memories her numerous split lips, black eyes, and neck braces never failed to evoke whenever he chanced to see them.

Painful memories from another lifetime, ones he wished he could forget.

Another scream, pitiful and faint, drifted from the woman's open garage just as Lance leapt over the low bushes that lined her driveway. He angled his course and strode towards the sound, his rage flaring brightly when he saw bare and blood-streaked female legs kicking out violently from beneath a much larger male aggressor.

"Son of a bitch," Lance growled, about to rush headlong into the dim confines of the garage, when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Careful," Pietro's unexpected voice cautioned behind him.

Startled, Lance turned and met his friend's eyes, unnerved by the warily suspicious light emanating from them, and shrugged off the paler boy's grip. "What? You think I can't take him?"

"It's not that," Pietro said uneasily, following as Lance started towards the grappling couple again. "But with all the stuff in the news...better safe than sorry."

Lance gave the advice a terse nod of agreement, and took up a rusted shovel that had been propped near the garage's entrance. Wrapping his hands around the splintery handle and hefting it like a baseball bat, he stepped in behind Blondie's attacker. "Get the hell off of her!" he yelled, as Pietro added a loud "We've called the cops and they're on their way!"

Strangely, as if the words had summoned them, the distant whine of sirens could be heard by both boys, though neither the threat of police, or Lance's shouted command, seemed to have much effect on the man currently brutalizing their neighbour. He simply continued to hold down the no longer thrashing woman, oddly feral grunts and hisses sounding from the head bent over his victim, his actions concealed by shadow.

What the murk failed to hide, however, were several thin rivulets of dark red liquid that had started to run from the woman's torso and across the concrete flooring.

Seeing them, Pietro inhaled sharply and took an involuntary step backwards.

Lance saw the blood too, but it infuriated, rather than frightened him. "You asked for it, asshole," he spat through clenched teeth, bringing his impromptu weapon down on the man's head without warning.

Expecting his adversary to be at least stunned by the blow, Lance was surprised to see the man leap to his feet with inhuman speed, his body twisting around cat-like, a chilling, high pitched wail reverberating from his lungs as he moved into the light.

The two boys pulled back into defensive positions at the prospect of a fight, Lance beginning to raise the shovel threateningly above his shoulder, ready for another round...only to very nearly drop it when his body went numb with instant fear.

The thing approaching was like no man he'd ever seen before.

A contorted, blood-slicked face, a snapping mouth, a pair of near-white eyes that stared out at the world without a trace of humanity, all set within a shaved head that sat atop six-plus feet of rippling muscle.

Lance barely managed a choked "Oh my god..." before the man charged at him full tilt, teeth bared, arms outstretched, deafening shrieks pouring from his mouth.

There was no time for debate, no opportunity for rational thought; Lance simply swung the shovel with every fiber of his being, dimly aware of Pietro sidestepping the onrushing creature and scrambling towards the fallen woman.

The shovel made a satisfying cracking sound when it connected with the man's head, the force behind it staggering him to his knees, but failing to drop him as Lance had hoped. The thing climbed to its feet again, half his face and skull sunken in grotesquely from the crushing blow, and lurched towards the boy, seemingly unfazed by its mashed countenance.

Lance, heart thudding wildly against his ribcage, threw restraint into the wind, and struck the creature another glancing blow across the face, knocking it to the ground. From there, he proceeded to batter the thing's head into the pavement, smashing it over and over and over again, sending drops of blood flying along the driveway and spraying against his shirt, halting only when a particularly vicious swing cracked the shovel handle in half.

He stared at the broken shaft in dazed confusion, until a pale hand plucked it from his nerveless fingers and cast it atop the man's twitching body.

"I think he's done," Pietro's soft voice told him, calling him back to himself.

Breathing heavily, as if he'd just run for miles, Lance flexed his cramped, blood-spattered hands, and stared, sick with disbelief, at the fruits of his labours.

Pietro's assessment proved the understatement of the year; the man's head was now an unrecognizable mass of shattered bone, wetly gleaming cartilage, and pulpy tissues. The mouth that had howled for blood was now full of its own, and not much else. Bits of shattered teeth littered the dark asphalt, lying in pools of syrupy fluid that still trickled from a busted skull, which, oddly enough, reminded Lance of the pumpkins he and his friends had dropped from the roof of the boarding house one Halloween.

Those swollen orange globes, carved into an effigy of a man's face, had exploded when treated to blunt force, too. Only they'd spewed seeds and thread-like guts across the road, not gelatinous hunks of gray matter.

Sirens could be heard once again, crying off in the distance, the eerie echo of a frantically tolling church bell joining them.

"I think we should get out of here," Pietro murmured, pulling at Lance's sleeve.

"What about...?" Lance started to ask, looking over to where the blonde woman lay.

Pietro shook his head. "I tried to stop the bleeding, but she'd been ripped up pretty bad." He shrugged, a helpless gesture. "There was nothing I could do."

Lance exhaled his defeat slowly, then felt his eyes go wide. "If she's dead," he whispered, clutching at Pietro's shirt as he continued to stare into the garage, "then why is she getting _up_?"

"_What_?" Pietro demanded, pivoting around just in time to see Blondie straighten to her full height. "No way, no _way_! She was dead - I saw her die! She was _DEAD_!" he insisted shrilly.

Held in thrall by the shockingly disturbing sight, the boys watched as the woman shambled towards them, her long blonde hair now matted and discoloured with gore, her head flopping almost comically on what remained of her ruined neck. She'd only been wearing a pair of shorts and a bra when she'd been attacked, and her unclothed flesh revealed dozens of circular red marks, raw gouges where it looked as if whole mouthfuls of meat had been chewed from her still-living body.

Upon noticing her audience, she tried to cry out, but her obscenely exposed windpipe refused to accommodate, instead releasing a plaintive whine that set the tattered strips of neck flesh fluttering. Her uncertain steps immediately took on new purpose, and hunger flared in her milky eyes as she moved in for the kill.

"Shovel - shovel - _shovel_!" Pietro suddenly cried, pushing his teammate towards the broken weapon.

Lance shot him an incredulous look. "Screw that!" he objected wildly, even as his hands clenched into tight fists and his eyes rolled back in his head.

The earth started rumbling violently beneath their feet, making the entire garage shudder alarmingly on its foundations, and effectively unbalancing Blondie. She listed backwards, just as a rapidly growing sinkhole formed directly behind her. Within seconds, the slight depression was a gaping black maw, a chasm that began swallowing everything in the vicinity - the dead woman included.

When she'd completely slipped from view, Lance made a pushing motion with his hands, and called on the earth to shift back into place. It did, burying the creature - and half of the garage - absolutely.

Gasping for air, Lance slumped into a crouch and propped both hands on his bent knees, shivering with exertion. "What...the _hell_...is going...on?" he managed between breaths.

"I think...whatever's happening in the cities is beginning to spread," Pietro finally replied in a grim tone, eyeing the newly created mound of dirt like he expected Blondie to claw her way out of it any minute. He turned to Lance, offering him a hand up. "If we're getting out of Bayville, we'd better get moving."

Lance stood on his own, nodding at Pietro as the two made their way back to the boarding house. "Oh, we're getting out of here all right, but there are still a few things we need to figure..." His voice trailed off mid-sentence, and he stopped in his tracks, his head cocked to one side, listening.

"What -" Pietro tried to speak, but Lance shushed him with a curt gesture.

"_Listen_," the darker boy hissed insistently.

The sirens were still keening, though there were decidedly more of them now.

The panicked church bell had gone ominously silent, and had since been replaced by a series of popping noises - like backfiring cars would make. But the sharp staccato bursts were far too many, far too rapid in succession, to be anything but gunfire.

And then the sound that had originally caught his attention drifted to Lance's ears again, filling his stomach with ice.

Screams...terrified screams echoing from somewhere nearby.

He and Pietro turned to look down the street at the same time, just as three police cars recklessly sped through the distant intersection at its end. A few seconds later, a knot of wailing, stumbling, shrieking people followed in their wake, running en masse as if their lives depended on it.

And a mere heartbeat later, the boys saw why.

Things that appeared human, but sounded more like howling lunatics, were hot in pursuit.

As the two youths looked on, a woman at the rear of the fleeing group tripped, fell, and was swarmed before she'd even risen to her knees.

"Get the others," Lance instructed Pietro through stiff lips, backing his way over to the jeep without taking his eyes off the feeding creatures only a block away.

The three missing teammates were quickly hustled from dwelling to car with a minimum of fuss, though the expressions on their faces, ranging from worry to outright alarm, spoke of their fear.

"What's going on, yo?" Todd asked as the jeep's engine was revved to life.

"We're leaving," Lance informed him tightly.

"But what about the plan?"

Lance couldn't answer the smaller boy's question right away, as the jeep swerving from driveway to street immediately attracted the attention of the nearby feasters, and first one, then two, gore-reddened faces whipped up from their meal of fresh corpse. Seeing new prey, the pair sprang to their feet, leaving their equally bloody comrades to their kill, bellowing and hooting with maniacal glee as they raced towards the teens.

With trembling fingers, Lance put the jeep into gear, speeding off in the opposite direction so quickly that the tires squealed in protest, leaving the creatures with only his dust to eat.

As the immediate danger receded, he chanced a look back at the silently stunned trio seated behind him.

Fred's eyes were as round as teacups, and his girth jiggled with the force of the frightened tremors assailing him.

Wanda seemed calm at first glance, but her skin, drained of colour, and the deep blue eyes that mirrored her twin's, now hollow and dazed, belied her rigid composure.

Todd appeared the most shaken by the urgency of their departure and the things that had come running for them. He'd burrowed into Fred, his blank face tearful.

"It's going to be okay, Toddy," Lance reassured the youngest member of the group as he turned towards the road again, scanning the upcoming avenue for signs of movement.

"Not without a plan," Todd whispered mournfully.

"We've got one," Lance replied, his jaw clenching. "And that's staying alive."


	7. Swan Song Of A Blackbird

Title: The Genesis Strain  
Author: furygrrl  
Archive: Just ask first  
Rating: R - for language, violence, and gore  
Disclaimer: Not mine - and neither is CNN.

Yrch Monger - ::cackles:: Jesus/Legolas?! You're right, I'd better not ask. As for the Jean/Evan aspect - I wondered if anyone might take their behaviour as suspicious! Never fear, I have no intention of fixing 'em up - well, with each other, anyway. And yes! You are doubly observant! Blondie is most definitely a 'Nancy-ish' character. As for my prose being addictive...what can I say but thank you! I'm completely flattered you think so! :D

Purity Black - you are such a doll, putting my humble offering on your fave's list. Thank you so much! :D

CPBaker 12 and pristinediamond - thanks for reviewing!

**Question: Does anyone think I should just announce the pairings I've planned for, or continue on all mysterious-like?** **Please enlighten me!**

**

* * *

**Chapter Six: Swan Song of a Blackbird 

Xavier Institute For The Gifted  
Westchester County, New York  
June 27th 9:20 a.m.

Rogue strode down one of the stainless steel corridors that lay far below the mansion, face pinched with worry, gloved hands smoothing down the sides of her recently donned uniform. The main Communications Room was her destination, and the sounds of shouting men, firing guns, and above it all, the hoarse cries of a local CNN news affiliate, floated from its open doorway and to her approaching ears.

_**"...don't know how much longer the decimated police presence here at the West Grove shelter can maintain the barricade, as a crowd of the afflicted, numbering in the hundreds, continue to try and break through. More than fifteen officers and at least two dozen civilian defenders have been reported as missing and assumed killed, after they were injured and then forcibly pulled over the barricade's walls by members of the attacking group."**_

Stepping into the dim room, Rogue's anxious eyes sought and immediately located the hunched form of Scott - a dark silhouette against the brightness of the large wall monitor. The sinking feeling in her stomach became more pronounced when she noticed he hadn't moved an inch since she'd gone to shower and change - or, now that she thought of it, since their vigil had begun.

Mere minutes after Hank and the Professor had left, she and Scott had decided that the communications room - equipped with television, internet, security camera feeds, and the ever-important radio link to the Blackbird - would be the best place to bunker down until the jet's return. It was there, hours ago, that they'd started searching through the various news channels, hoping to discover more about the mysterious situation that had called their instructors away.

At first, only a few of the major networks were commenting on what had originally been dubbed 'isolated incidents of unexplained violence', briefly mentioning a handful of cities and vague accounts of possible casualties, before moving on to other topics of interest. As the minutes ticked by, however, the violence, the list of affected cities, and the tally of the injured and dying, began to grow.

The broadcasts started dropping other segments, ignoring sports and weather, politics and entertainment, to focus solely on the increasing mayhem that was rapidly traveling throughout the country and, according to overseas correspondents, to nearly every other part of the world.

Less than two hours after they'd first started watching, a state of emergency had been declared. Shelters had been designated, an evacuation order was put into place, and the horribly erroneous phrase 'isolated incidents of unexplained violence' had been replaced with the more disturbingly apt 'explosion of widespread carnage'.

But what was worse - at least to the two teens so far removed from immediate danger - was the silence.

Teammates on vacation, friends throughout Bayville, the Professor and Hank; no one had contacted the Institute all morning.

"Anything?" Rogue's question - one that she instinctively knew the answer to already - was hushed, but Scott heard it over the television nonetheless.

He glanced up at her, the smooth contoured quartz of his visor gleaming dully in the scant light, and shook his head, face fixed in lines of worry. "No," he replied, just as quietly. "No sign of the Blackbird yet."

Rogue slipped into the seat next to him as he turned back to the console, watching as his fingers fiddled with a variety of dials and buttons. She could feel his agitation spread to her, as if it radiated from his skin like heat. It sent a tremor of impatience through the muscles in her legs, forcing her to cross them before her feet could begin tapping against the floor.

"What about the others?" she queried.

Scott snorted, a sound completely devoid of amusement, and motioned for her to take up the phone that had been built into the console's facing. Rogue frowned, but did as he instructed, plucking the receiver from its cradle and obediently holding it to her ear.

The echo of her heartbeat, a soft hissing sound, a stuttering 'click', and then...nothing.

"What the hell?" she breathed, reaching out and frantically stabbing her index finger against the phone's hook switch to no avail. Her wide eyes flickered up to Scott, the useless phone sliding down her cheek. "The line's dead."

Scott simply nodded, splayed fingers running over the inactive radar screen absently. "It must have happened just after you left. I'd wanted to try Alex again, but..." He shrugged, tone defeated.

Rogue felt her heart lurch, prompting her to lay a hand on the youth's nearest shoulder in shared sympathy. Calls placed to determine the welfare of her few family members hadn't been successful either. She knew nothing of Kurt or Irene.

"I'm sure a lot of the people we're worried about are going to turn up just fine," she murmured reassuringly when Scott responded, leaning into her touch. "Your brother, my brother, our friends, Hank and the Professor - even my momma, blind like she is - they've all got their mutations to help them face whatever's going on out there, not like -"

A series of screams wailing out from the monitor's speakers interrupted, making the tendons in Rogue's neck tense involuntarily and drying the moisture in her mouth. She blinked, swallowed, and licked her unpainted lips before trying again - but it was no good. Scott's head had already swiveled from her to the screen. At his low gasp of horror, Rogue's gaze did likewise.

The CNN reporter was no longer in view, but the cameraman was filming regardless, the unflinching video diary showing whatever fraction of the world might be watching that the besieged West Grove shelter had fallen.

The barricade of hastily erected wooden beams and sandbags, previously manned by innumerable - and now tellingly absent - police, military, and civilian defenders, had somehow been breached. One side of the structure sagged under the weight of flailing limbs as bloodied, grasping hands pulled the remaining supports down, while pale-eyed howlers clambered through a newly created cavity on the other, pushing and trampling each another in their eagerness.

The camera jerkily panned away from the monstrosities, and focused instead on what fueled their unholy anticipation.

Huddled as far back as whatever building they were in would allow, were people - hundreds and hundreds of people. A mixture of races, a broad scope of ages, some brandishing weapons - axes, bats, tire irons - some weeping, some on their knees praying loudly, all terrified by the sight of certain death racing towards them.

The screams that had sounded up until that point were but whispers compared to the agonizing screeches that echoed over the airwaves seconds later, as a wholesale slaughter commenced.

Rogue watched it all with numb disbelief. She'd heard the details of events occurring beyond the mansion's gates all morning, had seen graphs and charts, frightened government officials and sporadic aerial views of cities, explanations all as to the level of suffering currently being dealt the nation. But they were sterile, impersonal, perhaps, as she'd hoped earlier on, even exaggerated.

As the camera's operator was felled, though, as the camera followed, tumbling to the shelter's floor to present the unfolding massacre in an unnatural angle through a blood-dewed lens, all thoughts of exaggeration, all notions of hope, were instantly quashed. The red tide of truth couldn't be ignored any longer, and finally coming to understand exactly what that meant, left her sick and shaking.

Likewise stunned, Scott joined her in bearing silent witnesses to atrocities once only reserved for the goriest of horror movies, until the broadcast cut out completely. One second there were panicked screams and a fuzzy shot of people fighting for their lives, the next, another frightened reporter, another barely intact shelter, surrounded by yet another host of inhuman attackers.

The switch was sudden and unprofessional, as if whoever managing the studio's feeds had only just realized what the viewing audience was being treated to, and did what he or she could to spare it the grand finale.

"Too little, too late," Rogue whispered, nearly jumping out of her frozen skin a moment later when Scott's fist came crashing down on the keys of the console.

"God_dammit_ all!" he cried, his other hand slamming down so violently that Rogue flinched. "Why are we just sitting here? West Grove is what - twenty minutes away? Why aren't we _doing_ something? Why aren't we helping those people?"

"Scott -" Rogue began, trying to calm him down.

"And what about Bayville?" he continued angrily, riding over the interruption and gesturing wildly at the monitor. "How long before the same thing happens here? Before people start killing one another in the streets - if it hasn't started already? Our _friends_ are out there, for God's sake! They could be - they could..."

He stood and turned to her, his voice cracking at the last, his visor doing nothing to hide the look of abject despair clutching at his features.

"Please Scott, don't," Rogue pleaded, rising to stand at his side, not knowing what to say or how to comfort him. She settled for touching his shoulder again. "Don't do this to yourself."

He barked out a bitter laugh. "Do _what_? Refuse to see what's right in front of my face? Refuse to acknowledge the truth? I can't, Rogue! I can't keep telling myself that this is all just a bad dream I'm going to wake up from soon! I can't justify hiding like some scared kid just because I've suddenly discovered that the monsters under the bed are real this time! Not when these," he slapped a hand against the band of quartz covering his eyes, "are telling me I could be doing something about it. _Should_ be doing something about it!"

Not liking the conclusion his agitated speech seemed to be heading towards, Rogue took his upper arms in a no-nonsense grip. "Now you listen to _me_, Scott Summers," she chastised, feeling the trembles that wracked his frame even through her gloves. "You're the first person to charge into trouble, no matter the odds, no matter the danger. You know it, I know it, and the Professor sure as hell knows it - which is exactly why he made you promise to sit tight and wait for him to get back in the first place. It has nothing to do with bravery or cowardice, and everything to do with us following orders - orders meant to keep us out of harm's way so that when a new plan of action is ready, we're still alive to see it done."

She could feel Scott's hidden eyes staring hard, could feel them burning against the flesh of her face with an almost palpable air of consideration. Strangely unnerved by the things she'd said, the emotions his mute appraisal stirred, and by the impassioned reflection of herself in his visor, she lowered her lashes.

Her grip loosened and fingers unthinkingly stroked down the length of his arms, finding his hands and curling around them. He latched onto her immediately, grasp going tight, like a drowning man holding fast to his only lifeline.

"I've never felt so..._helpless_," he finally whispered brokenly.

"I know," she agreed gravely, "but you can't let those kinds of thoughts take over. The people we love are strong, but they're counting on us to be strong, too. We won't do them - or anyone else who might need our help - any good if we rush off and get ourselves killed."

Scott sighed, sounding suddenly weary, and closed the small distance between them, pulling her, surprised but unprotesting, into a solid embrace. "I almost hope you're wrong," he murmured into her hair. "I'm not feeling particularly strong at the moment."

Rogue relaxed against his chest, her arms slipping around his waist a few seconds later. "That's why the Professor left me here with you - to be strong enough for the both of us," she replied with forced levity, grateful that her voice betrayed none of the inner turmoil his nearness was causing.

He shifted, his chin settling on the crown of her head, and she imaged that he smiled at her words. "I'm glad he did," he told her honestly before pulling away slightly. He gazed down at her upturned face, smile fading in favour of seriousness, thumbs absently tracing the line of her spine. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Unable to breathe, let alone respond to such an unexpected statement, Rogue simply stood there, dazed, staring at him dumbly, desperately trying not to shiver under his butterfly caress. She couldn't guess how long they remained that way, either - he, stroking the curve of her back without seeming to realize he was doing so; she, luxuriating in the sensation of his heart thudding reassuringly against her breasts. She only knew that it wasn't long enough - though she doubted even an eternity spent in his arms would satisfy.

A loud crackle of static bursting from the console's com-link was what eventually brought them back to reality and startled them apart. 

"Mr. McCoy!" Rogue breathed with relief, muting the television and leaning over Scott when he'd reseated himself in front of the radio's controls.

_"...ome in...are...proach.......will be...andin...roximately five...tes..."_

Scott hurriedly positioned the microphone of a discarded headset in front of his face, while his free hand slowly twisted a series of dials in an attempt to improve reception. "Beast? This is Cyclops, do you read me?" he asked.

_"I can't......can........."_

"Beast? Are you there?"

_"...the..rofessor....was..........and needs.....cal atten....as soon as we......"_

Rogue anxiously watched the small golden blip inching across the glowing green radar field beside Scott's elbow, hoping that the sense of dread growing in her gut wasn't a product of hearing Hank sound so unlike himself.

The unrelieved static made understanding the usually calm and collected instructor nigh impossible, but no amount of interference could disguise the strained tone of alarm in his voice whenever his words did ring through.

"You're breaking up, Blackbird. Say again?"

_"The communica.......was dam.......we tried to.......anta.........tack.....the Prof....was........nee...you to......in the......bay......over!"_

Scott made a sound of frustration. "I can't understand him!"

"Doesn't matter," Rogue replied, pointing to the pulsating blip. "They're closing in fast. Looks like they should be pulling into the hangar any minute."

"Right," Scott sighed in irritation, tossing the next-to-useless headset to the floor. "Let's head over to the -"

Another blast of indecipherable static slashed through the speakers, halting both movement and conversation, the contents of the garbled message instantly flooding the listening teens' insides with icy tendrils of fear.

_"The Profes........don't under.........shouldn't........be able.....k.....it back dow.........no.....stay ba........why are........this......op!....no, NO! Don't make.....ou..........don't....no....NO....NOOOO!"_

An angry roar, a series of shouts, banging, the ear splitting screech of grinding metal, and then the sibilant hiss of disconnection.

Rogue and Scott stood staring at one another, refusing to breathe, willing and waiting for Hank's jovial voice to crackle through the link and tell them all was well, but it was a futile wish.

Instead of reassurances, a frantic beeping wailed to life, followed by an explosion of flashing warning lights that lit the computer console like a red and yellow Christmas tree.

"Oh no," Scott moaned, diving for his headset and hurriedly making an attempt to contact the approaching jet. He tapped several buttons, his head swiveling from one series of readings to another, until he ripped the mike and ear-piece away, his entire frame shaking visibly with angry disbelief. "No!"

"What?" Rogue cried, not understanding the implications of the rapidly blinking numbers scrolling across the circular radar screen.

"This can't be happening...this _can't_ be happening!"

"Dammit, Scott! What's going on?" she tried again, pulling at his arm until he looked at her.

"The Blackbird," he stammered, running a trembling hand through his hair. "Communications have been severed, and it's - it's falling. Fast."

"What do you mean, 'falling'?" Rogue demanded incredulously.

"As in it's losing altitude and dropping like a stone!" he snapped harshly, taking a shuddery breath when he saw Rogue recoil. "As in Hank better do something quick, or the Blackbird's going to crash."

Despite the softer tone, his words had the same effect as a slap in the face and a punch to the stomach. "Oh my God," Rogue whimpered when her throat unclenched, the sting of hot tears pricking her eyes a moment before her vision went blurry. "Can't we do something? Don't we have remote capabilities or - or...?"

Scott gave his head a little shake, his voice coming out in a choked whisper. "No, there's...we've got nothing."

The beeping noises swirling around them suddenly began stuttering wildly, rolling over one another, repeating faster and faster like a racing heartbeat, forcing their gazes back to the radar screen.

"Forty thousand feet," Scott noted quietly. "Thirty-six...twenty-nine."

Rogue bit her lip, fervently begging every deity that came to mind for help.

"Twenty-three...eighteen..."

"C'mon Hank..."

"Twelve thousand...nine..."

"Pull up, damn you - pull _UP_!"

Scott was gasping now. "Seven thousand...five...four..."

"Oh God!" Rogue sobbed, clutching at the hand blindly groping for hers and gripping hard.

"Three...two..."

The sensors went crazy.

Rogue squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face against Scott's back, trying to block out the deafening cacophony of light and sound screaming all around her, until Scott cried out, "It stopped diving!"

"W-what?" She looked up.

"It's not falling anymore - it's slowing down!"

Dashing away tears with her free hand, Rogue whispered heartfelt thanks to whatever force had intervened, wondering why the lights and alarms had yet to cease, just as Scott's next words provided the answer.

"Not slow enough...not slow _enough_! Ease up, Hank - ease _up_! You're still coming in too fast!" he yelled at the uncaring screen.

The altitude readings dropped under one hundred feet, then under fifty, and then the numbers disappeared under a wash of blinking red. The rest of the warning lights suddenly died, and, save for a single, droning whine reminiscent of a flat-lining heart rate monitor, an ominous silence descended.

In Rogue's mind, it was a deathly quiet, a lifeless sound even more terrible than the calamitous riot of only moments before. She looked down at the frame slumped over the console, realizing the hand she held had gone slack.

"Scott? Is it...is it over?"

He moved a little, started to sit up. "Yes."

His figure swam in Rogue's sight as fresh tears surged anew. "A-and?" she prompted hopefully.

Scott stood, swaying as if drunk. "And we'll have to hurry."

"Hurry? Where?" Rogue swiped at her eyes.

"About five miles north of the Institute," he replied, sounding more like himself, less uncertain, as he moved towards the corridor. "That's where they came down."

_He's grief-stricken...he doesn't know what he's saying...what he's doing..._

"Oh, Scott," Rogue murmured brokenly, trailing after him and grasping his arm. "I don't know what you're hoping to find out there, but whatever it is, it won't be what you're looking for, I promise you that. Please, just sit down a minute and we'll figure some-"

He pulled out of her grip and kept going.

She stripped a glove from her hand in one smooth movement. "Unless you give me one good reason not to," she continued, torn between anguish and severity, "I will do whatever's necessary to keep you from setting one foot out this door."

"I have to see for myself, Rogue."

"What? Their _bodies_?" she demanded, choking on the last.

"If they're even dead at all!" Scott cried, suddenly angry as rivulets of liquid leaked down his cheeks unchecked. "I know what common sense is telling me - they hit too hard, they're more than likely gone, that it'd be a - a fucking _miracle_ if either one of them managed to survive that kind of impact! But I'll be damned if I just write them off without knowing for sure - and I sure as hell won't leave them to be found by some _thing_ roaming the streets!"

He shook his head, voice lowering to a pain-filled murmur. "I know you mean well, Rogue, and I know what you're thinking - that shock's made me irrational or suicidal - and who knows? Maybe it has. But my mind's made up. I'm going to find them - or whatever's left of them - with or without you."

Scott turned to walk away, but a hand snatched at his before he could move, making him cringe inside. He waited for the telltale ripple of Rogue's numbingly cold power to flood through him, to render him senseless and send him to the floor in a heap...

But it never came.

Rogue felt him flinch, saw his gaze go to her recently re-covered fingers interlaced with his own, and, when he looked up at her, she met his confused expression with misty eyes and a tremulous smile.

"You can go, Scott," she whispered, squeezing his hand. "But _never_ without me."


	8. Tunnel Rats

**Ack! Sorry about the multiple postings. The site isn't being very nice at the moment, and keeps screwing with my text and spacing only AFTER I've put the chapter up - and I'm too anal not to try and fix it.** **If it doesn't work properly this time, I'm just going to leave it. If you notice any glaring mistakes, just know it's not me. ;)**

Title: The Genesis Strain  
Author: furygrrl  
Archive: Just ask first  
Rating: R - for language, violence, and gore  
Disclaimer: Not mine

Author's Note and shout outs have been left to the end - except this one:

I've never been to NYC. All the information used in chapters set in the city, including this one, has been gleaned from places like Mapquest, the NY Port Authority site, and the La Guardia homepage. I hope anyone familiar with the Big Apple will overlook any errors or discrepancies I might make. :)

* * *

"Hi, you've reached the voicemail of Jean Grey. I can't take your call at the moment, so please leave a message!"

Static...

"Jean? _Jean_! It's Kitty - oh God, I hope you get this message - I - I hope you're o-okay because - because I really need your help!"

Shallow panting...

"I was sleeping in one of the airport lounges and then there was all this _s-screaming_ and - and people were running around - covered in blood and - _God_, Jean! They were _killing_ each other! They were - they were - I didn't know what to do! I r-ran - I phased through a w-wall and just ran! I thought maybe I could get some help - the police or - or something, but outside...outside was _worse_! There was blood and more people and - and a man! A man with half his _face_ ripped away! He grabbed me and tried to b-bite me, but I got away - I phased right through him and I - I don't know how many others. I'm in a - in a restaurant across from the airport, but most of the front windows are smashed in, so I don't know how much longer I can stay here..."

Sobbing...

"Jean...**_please_**! _Please_ come and get me! I don't know if I can -"

Shattering glass...

Shrieks...

"Oh no...oh God - **STAY AWAY FROM ME! STAY AWAY FR**-"

Screams...

Screams...

Screams...

Silence.

"To save this message, press '7', to delete it, press '9'. If you would like to..."

* * *

Chapter Seven: Escape From New York – Part One

New York City, New York  
June 27th 9:32 a.m.

After long minutes spent traversing streets not only crawling with homicidal cannibals and their panicked prey, but choked with all manner of wreckage – overturned buses, smoking cars, and tangled lines of abandoned taxis – some still carrying gory tokens of their former fares – Evan and Jean managed to find temporary refuge.

Parked in an empty mechanic's bay at 'Benny & Sons' Auto Garage' on the corner of Tudor City Place and East 42nd St., they took a few minutes to collect themselves before embarking on the next leg of their journey. One that all but promised to be fraught with a level of danger neither had experienced up until that point.

"Are we really doing this?" Evan finally asked in a frightened whisper.

Jean took a deep, shaking breath, and nodded. "You heard that last radio report. The Queenboro Bridge is completely impassable, and the Williamsburg Bridge is too far away."

They were peering out the Explorer's windshield, only instead of watching for movement on out on the road ahead of them, both stared apprehensively at a gaping black mouth a block away – their ticket out of Manhattan, and quite possibly, the gateway that would lead them to their deaths.

The Queens' Midtown Tunnel.

"I'm afraid we don't have any other choice," Jean added softly.

"I still don't like it," Evan said, shifting nervously in his seat. "Looks like a tight fit, even on foot...too many cars blocking the way. No lights, either...and what's with all that smoke?"

"Probably something burning inside," Jean replied absently as she started rooting through the glove compartment. "Don't worry, I can keep the smoke away from us until we get past it."

"Call me crazy, but suffocating's the least of my worries right now," the younger boy muttered before turning to her with pleading eyes. "Can't you just...you know – levitate us or whatever? Those freaks won't be able to get us if we're twenty feet over their heads, right?"

Jean sighed and briefly met his gaze. "I really wish I could, Evan, but it would be too much for me. I can barely keep us shielded properly now, let alone carry both of us over such a long distance. After all that's happened, I'm just...too drained."

He nodded his understanding slowly, though he slumped just a little bit more. "So the tunnel it is," he agreed darkly, rotating one of his shoulders and wincing as if it pained him. He started rubbing it gently and continued. "What's the plan once we're in Queens? It's gotta be at least a hundred blocks to the airport."

"I know," the redhead replied, opening a map she'd discovered and scanning it quickly.

The streets of New York and its surrounding boroughs stared back at her, all squiggles of coloured ink and tiny letters, each seeming, in Jean's frustrated mind, to take delight in showing her just how daunting a task she'd set herself. She located La Guardia at once, then the tunnel's position, and traced a fingernail, rimed in dried blood, between the two points.

"Jackson turns into Northern Boulevard...then the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway connects with Grand Central Parkway...which runs right in front of La Guardia." She worried her lower lip for a second, considering the potential route before finally exhaling heavily and refolding the creased paper.

"Well?" Evan asked anxiously, still waiting for a full reply.

"I don't think we'll have any trouble finding a car on the other side of the river, so hopefully we won't be out in the open for long," Jean started, crawling over her seat and into the SUV's trunk space.

Evan didn't take his eyes off the world just beyond the half-open garage door, but he could hear her slightly muffled voice regardless.

"Once we're mobile again, we'll try taking the direct way – straight through Queens."

"What if the streets there as bad as the ones here?" he asked her apprehensively. "What if they're worse?"

Jean popped up from behind the rear seat and climbed into the front again, now clutching a black nylon bag that she opened as soon as she was sitting. "We can only pray that they're not," she said quietly, pulling a set of jumper cables from the bag and dropping them to the floor. "No point in worrying about it anyway, it's out of our hands. We'll just have to make do the best we can," she went on grimly, extracting a flashlight next and checking to see if it was functional. It was.

Evan didn't say anything to that, knowing she was right no matter how much he wished otherwise, and simply watched her sort through the contents of the Explorer's emergency kit his dad had put together a few months previous.

A can of tire sealant joined the jumpers, as did an AAA guidebook and a pair of coarse cotton gloves, leaving the flashlight, a package of spare batteries, a small first aid kit, three flares, and two plastic ponchos.

Jean added the map and dropped in her blood-smeared cell phone, checking first to see that it was still on, before zipping the bag closed again. "Okay." She inhaled deeply and turned to her teammate. "I think it's time to go."

Evan swallowed and unbuckled his seatbelt with trembling hands. "I still can't believe we're doing this," he maintained fearfully, flinching at the sound of Jean unlocking her door, and then again when he felt her grasp his forearm unexpectedly.

"Hey." Jean's voice was soft but firm.

He glanced over at her.

"We're going to be fine. We'll find Kitty and be on our way home before you know it. Just...try to hold on to that, okay?"

Staring into those fatigue-shadowed green eyes that shone with determination, at that weak smile of reassurance, at her pale face, freckled with pinpricks of dried blood and set in lines of certainty, Evan almost believed her.

And for the moment, it was enough.

He nodded and offered her a faint smile in return, and together, they exited the car.

Although it was still a few hours shy of midday, the interior of the garage was already uncomfortably warm and stale with the lingering fumes of motor oil. Jean's nose wrinkled of its own accord as she moved to the front of the car, but consciously she paid the chemically scented room no heed; there were too many other things to claim her undivided attention.

Primarily, the deceptive stillness just beyond the large retractable door ahead of her.

Cautiously, she moved up to the partially exposed opening and crouched against the wall next to it, motioning for Evan to do the same on his side. When he complied, she turned her gaze to the street and began searching for signs of danger.

_Do you see anything?_ She asked Evan telepathically a minute later.

_No_, he thought back to her. _You?_

"Nothing," she replied in a hushed whisper, rising to her feet and slinging the nylon bag over her shoulder. "But that doesn't mean a whole lot. The tunnel's a good distance away, and anything could be hiding in that traffic mess we're going to have to pass through."

"Don't remind me," Evan muttered, reaching for the hand she extended.

Together, they crouched once more, taking one last, precautionary look at the path and its surroundings, steeling themselves for the run of their lives. And then, without warning, Jean ducked under the door and pulled for him to follow.

_I'll keep us shielded as long as I can_, she told him silently as he stumbled after her. _Just do what you did before – keep moving, keep quiet, and don't let go of my hand!_

Evan nodded in unspoken assent despite the fact that she couldn't see him do so, and raced along in her wake, adrenaline surging through him so forcefully that he was gasping and light-headed before they even cleared the sidewalk.

The sky was now the typical jewel-toned blue of an early summer morning, contrasting sharply with the wisps of cotton clouds that dotted its broad expanse. Against that seemingly endless cobalt tapestry, the golden blaze of the sun hung suspended, like a brightly glittering holiday ornament, near blinding in its efforts to heat the breeze rolling off the East River which, for once, carried no odor of rotting fish or spoiling garbage.

Bare feet slapping urgently against cracked and tarred pavement, Jean refused to consider the beauty of the day. It was abhorrent to her, incomprehensible, that anything – even the heavens - could retain a sense of normalcy after the denizens of hell had been unleashed. She doubted even hail and lightening would be a suitable enough backdrop for such horror, but would have traded sunshine for the fiercest storm in a heartbeat.

The uncaring sky – in all its profane perfection - simply made that which was already impossible to bear all the more hideous.

The eerie parking lot of backed up vehicles loomed just ahead.

Hurriedly, she swept her musings aside and refocused on those unmoving lines.

She could see that some cars were unmarred, their doors flung wide, motors left idling, as if the driver intended to return at any moment. Some had run into their neighbours and bore the telltale injuries of the meeting – punched-in windshields, the hiss of a disturbed engine, crumpled fenders and tailgates. Others, however, told not of abandonment, but of a forcible relinquishing.

In those increasingly frequent cases, bold sweeps of blackening blood had been liberally splashed across both road and interiors, the gruesome artwork accentuated, more often than not, with hunks of what could only be human flesh.

Identifying those crimson globs, marbled with cream-coloured veins of fatty tissue and the bolder starkness of cartilage was difficult at first – most seemed to have been blanketed under some kind of slickly writhing darkness.

When Jean couldn't stop herself from taking a closer look at one of them, she nearly gagged, finally coming to realize what those undulating masses of oily movement were.

Flies, thousands and thousands of flies, lured by the warm stench of death, were now feasting on the macabre buffet that had been spread for the scavengers.

_Don't look, Evan...don't look...don't look..._ was Jean's telepathic mantra as they passed those bug-covered body parts; one, a suspiciously oval-shaped object that was so encrusted with the gorging green-backed insects that if fairly pulsated with new life.

But the pair's hurried movement unintentionally stirred up the humming congregation, revealing the true nature of that particular secret meal, and good intentions fled in the face of morbid curiosity. Both teens darted a quick glance back, their misgivings instantly confirmed and then drowned under roiling waves of revulsion.

It was a head, topped with a fan of short black hair. Blood had dripped and dried in rusty streaks from a soundlessly screaming mouth and a nose denuded of flesh. Cheeks had been ripped open, exposing molars and the red pit-like cavities of the inner mouth. The ragged stump just under the chin that had once been a neck still sported a length of rubbery arterial vein and a segmented stretch of remaining vertebrae.

Beyond those ghastly markers, nothing – age, gender, ethnicity – was distinguishable.

"_Jesus_..." Evan choked brokenly, his hand spasming around Jean's convulsively as they rushed onward.

"It's okay," she said, swallowing the acrid bile that threatened, struggling to keep calm and distant. She pulled at him, urging him to greater speed. "We're almost there, we're almost there..."

And they were.

The tunnel's entrance, devoid of light and belching a steady stream of noxious-smelling smoke, was only a few paces away, the slanting shadow it cast already offering slight respite from the day's heat.

"Other side's clearer," Jean noted as they approached, seeing that the charred remains of an ambulance, a delivery truck, and no less than three taxis, had merged to form a veritable wall of twisted steel blocking the lane they were in.

Shrinking the teke shield slightly so that their legs were free to navigate that metal jungle of crushed autos, the redhead headed towards the furthest of the four lanes, her heart thumping madly as the seconds of exposure without incident seemed to stretch beyond what could be credited as possible.

_Please God, just a little bit longer...just a little bit_ –

A hoarse, coughing cry behind her, followed by Evan's startled shriek of terror, signaled the end of their good fortune.

"**JEAN**!"

Without warning, the hand she held was suddenly wrenched from her grip, and she whirled, intending to deal with whatever danger had surfaced, but Evan, now thrashing erratically, knocked her off balance before she could.

The tight dimensions of the surrounding cars, coupled with the flowing nightgown tangling around her legs, sent her reeling into a violently awkward sprawl. She fell, felt something hard connect with back of her skull, felt a rapid succession of painful flashes – along her scalp, her hands, her shoulder, in head and neck – the latter making her vision dim for the briefest of seconds.

Awareness was regained with desperate urgency, and Jean blinked, her breath hissing out from between her clenched teeth when a variety of places began stinging and aching all at once. She ignored the hurt, and dazedly looked to her teammate.

He was on the ground a car length away, his arms flailing and legs kicking as a pair of broken hands, locked around his ankles, dragged him towards a figure slithering out from beneath a battered red Volvo.

Jean got the merest glimpse of a shredded face, an open mouth gurgling with bloody saliva, white eyes that gleamed with equal parts hunger, intensity, malevolence, before a series of wickedly sharp bone spikes erupted from Evan's fists.

There was a mournful groan of disappointment, a shuddering as grasping hands slackened, and then the creature stilled completely, its gruesome face now bristling with a forest of lethal quills.

Evan sat stunned, gulping huge mouthfuls of air, until he kicked the thing's dead hands away with a horrified whimper. Crab-like, he scuttled backwards and bumped into Jean, another shout of fright bursting from him when their bodies connected.

"It's okay – it's me," Jean said quickly when he turned with another spike forming under his wrist. "It's...just me," she repeated wearily, lifting a hand to swipe at a trickle of sweat sliding from her brow when the light of fear dissipated from his gaze.

But her fingertips encountered something thicker than perspiration.

Frowning, only dimly aware of Evan's sharp intake of breath, Jean lowered and examined her hand.

It was bright with blood.

"You're bleeding," Evan confirmed belatedly.

Jean nodded dumbly, still staring at streak of red glistening against her skin, feeling the thin rivulet of moisture continue to slide past her ear and down her neck. "I fell," she murmured as the younger boy squeezed into the cramped space next to her.

Evan stared at her critically for a moment, taking in the scrapes on her shin and palms, the shallow scratches on the nearest of her upper arms, then the long, weeping gash that started at her temple and disappeared into her hairline. It wasn't deep or bleeding profusely, but it worried him nonetheless - he'd seen similar on the skateboarding circuit, and knew that the seriousness of a head wound couldn't be judged by sight alone.

He leaned towards her, trying to get a better idea of the damage, when a piercing wail drifted from somewhere nearby. "Shit," he swore, looking around nervously before turning back to the redhead. "Can you walk?"

Jean nodded again, her eyelids fluttering heavily. "Yes," she whispered.

Evan rose into a squatting position, letting her brace herself against him as she did the same, and continued to scan the impromptu junkyard fearfully.

Another howl floated to his ears – closer now – before morphing into a discordant chorus when the cry of a second, then a third, creature joined in.

Evan's heart started stuttering wildly when a not-too-distant pick-up truck creaked under the weight of something clambering atop it. He darted a glance at the struggling telepath, still gamely climbing to an upright position, and reached for her with anxiety-bred impatience.

"Just lean on me," he muttered, tone clipped with fear, as he flung her arm about his neck and wrapped one of his around her waist.

Jean sagged into him as he hauled her up, wincing at the dull throbbing that invaded her being with the movement, and staggered when the world lurched dangerously.

Spurred by the barking screams and stomps of approaching footsteps, Evan wasn't inclined to give her a chance to wait out the dizziness. Half leading, half-dragging her, he managed to bring them the last few steps to the very edge of the tunnel, releasing her only when the jumble of mashed machinery made it impossible to go any further.

"C'mon Jean, we gotta climb over to get inside," he coaxed urgently, alien sounds now coming from either side in addition to the ones behind.

"You go first," she insisted softly, trembling fingertips touching her forehead. "I just need a second...don't worry, I'll be right behind you."

"Are you sure?" he asked dubiously, torn between wanting to protect his obviously injured friend, and the desperate need to escape the hunting killers that would be upon them any moment. But her nod dissolved the indecision, and without hesitation, he began scaling the wreckage.

Jean watched him maneuver his way across the buckled hood of a squashed sedan, as he leapt - as nimbly as stocking feet would allow – atop a station wagon that had flipped onto its side, and then, as he crawled on hands and knees down the wagon's crushed length.

A howl of excitement broke the tense silence of their getaway, and Jean knew that she didn't have any more time to delay. The pounding of feet, the delighted crooning of discovery, the chill wave that suddenly swept through her system - all told her that she'd been spotted.

And that something was coming for her.

She started climbing as quickly as she could, pulling herself up and over the squashed sedan, tripping and falling in her uncoordinated haste against the station wagon before managing to scramble on top of it, each precious second lost filling her with panic.

_It's going to get me...it's going to **get** me!_ Shrilled inside her head, her pulse pounding with painful intensity alongside that silent scream as she waited – waited for the first brutal touch of hands or teeth tearing into her exposed rear.

Neither had come by the time she'd crawled to the end of the wagon, but the booming echo of feet on the sedan behind her told her in was only a matter of seconds before that fear became reality.

"Hurry, Jean!"

She could see Evan standing on the tunnel floor below her, his spiked arms motioning for her to jump the 7 or so feet down next to him, her joints locking, freezing her in place when her vision began swimming with light-headedness.

The wagon suddenly trembled with new weight.

Jean willed herself to move and pushed herself off the car and into the darkness, narrowly avoiding the eager hand that swiped for her hair. She landed hard, but on her feet, and stumbled over to her teammate who was already busy shooting down the maniacs that were determined to have them.

But the minute one fell, two more rushed in to fill the void, and Jean could hear – could see – even more trying to push past their brethren from without. Their shadowy silhouettes showed no sign of dwindling, while Evan by comparison, was already beginning to weaken.

The bone spikes being produced were smaller than previous ones, and the time between launches started to stretch.

Determinedly, Jean closed her eyes and fought through the ache in her head, tears forming under her lashes when her teke didn't respond. She gritted her teeth and kept on trying, swaying with the effort.

_We can't die now...not here...not after everything that's happened...please...not like this..._

Like a blessing, warmth flickered faintly through the haze, and she latched onto it before it could fade, establishing the connection and then urging the power to swell and strengthen, her sluggish brain burning as it tried to resist her frantic pull.

Adrenaline helped to dull the agony and she opened her eyes, focusing immediately on the tunnel's cavernous ceiling. With deftness borne of desperation, she probed the smooth cement, blindly seeking a crack, a bit of crumbling mortar, any kind of flaw that she could use to their advantage.

Just as she found one, Evan faltered and crumpled to his knees, exhausted.

"I...I can't...I'm sorry...I'm _sorry_," he sobbed, flinching visibly when the crowd of attackers surged over the barrier that was their fallen companions, and the first of many jumped lightly to the small pocket of space he and Jean occupied.

The redhead didn't have an opportunity to waylay his dread. She was concentrating – on pushing back the wave of death rolling over the vehicular graveyard, on keeping the monsters at bay when the area around them was cleared, and then on the spider-webbing of miniscule fissures she'd located above the tunnel's entrance.

Jean forced the tendrils of her mind into those small pockets of damage, digging deep, pushing hard, trembling with exertion when her first attempts yielded nothing more than a powdery rain of dust. She kept working, disregarding the bite of sweat invading the cut at her temple, the distracting itch of the blood slowly slipping down her face, the discomfort of muscles contracting with the strain of her labours.

Survival, retaining a hold on her powers; they were the only thoughts that gripped her.

_There!_ She thought triumphantly, feeling something give way under her probe.

A section of concrete fell from above and struck the top of a car with shattering force.

Encouraged, she scrabbled for more, and was rewarded when another chunk of rock, followed by another, and then another, fell amongst the screaming horde like the beginnings of a cement shower – a shower that became a veritable avalanche within seconds.

The tunnel shuddered.

Evan, still on his knees, watched with an expression of awe as Jean's heavy-handed assault battered and struck down members of the slavering group on the other side of her tenuously held shield. He could hear her shallow gasps, and when he looked up, could see her face gleaming with sweat, the tendons in her arms singing tautly against her skin, her narrowed eyes, feverish with purpose.

The tunnel groaned.

Something pinged off Evan's head, and he turned his gaze ceiling-ward, instant anxiety clutching at his insides when he saw the widening cracks in the rock above them. "Jean! The tunnel's collapsing!"

His announcement drew no response from the concentrating telepath. He tugged at her arm. "Jean! _Stop_!"

"No," she insisted breathlessly, shaking off his grip. "Gotta bury those bastards."

Dirt and support beams were crashing down at the tunnel's entrance, stealing what remained of the daylight and filling the air with clouds of gritty dust.

"You're gonna bury _us_!" Evan shouted wildly, his words dissolving into coughs.

He'd just thrown an arm over his head to protect it from the hail of sediment, sure that Jean had finally snapped and was going to kill them both, when suddenly, the noise, the shaking – everything – stopped.

Almost disbelieving, Evan wiped the dirt from his face and blinked, squinting into the new dimness, shocked by the sight that greeted him.

The front of the tunnel was now completely caved in, and the threat from without had been effectively sealed off.

They were safe – for the moment.

A flood of relief surged through the younger boy at realizing this, and he turned to the telepath, admiration shining in his eyes. "You _did_ it, girl! You flattened those freaks!"

Jean was slumped against a car frame, tangled locks of hair hanging in her face, nearly bent double as her body heaved for breath. At Evan's voice, she lifted her head and nodded once. "I guess I did," she panted weakly as she pushed herself into a standing position.

Even in the dark, Evan could see how unsteady she was, and he frowned. "That was some serious shit you just pulled. Don't you think you should rest for a minute?" He murmured worriedly, holding out a hand in case she needed his support.

"I'm fine," Jean replied softly, ignoring his hand and slipping past him.

There was a rustling sound, then the rattle of a zipper. A loud click echoed a second later, and a pale yellow beam burst forth from the flashlight Jean was now holding, its illumination brightening the area around them and the path ahead for about ten feet.

It showed pretty much what she'd expected.

Empty cars, some crushed, some not, scattered tires, twisted fenders, the glitter of broken side mirrors, taillights, smashed window shards, and very little room to maneuver.

A swirl of something dark rolled serpent-like through the beam of light, drawing her attention.

_Smoke_, she remembered absently, peering ahead to see if she could determine its source.

Nothing but the darkness stared back.

She suppressed a shiver and instead trained the flashlight on the results of her telekinetic handiwork one last time.

_No point in worrying about where it's coming from anyway_, she told herself grimly, satisfied that the blockage would stand firm against anything the mob outside threw at it.

_Because smoke or no smoke, there's no going back now..._

"No going back," she repeated aloud, the whispered words sounding ominously final to her ears.

"Did you say something?" Evan asked, shifting from foot to foot nervously.

Jean shook her head, wincing when she did so. "No," she murmured, using her sleeve to dab at the bloody cut by her brow and then motioning for him to fall in behind her. "We should probably get going, though. We've got a long way to go, and Kitty's still out there somewhere, waiting for us."

The teens started to move, gingerly stepping around the obstacles that littered the path, their moods subdued and their hearts heavy at being reminded of their missing friend, both sick with uneasiness at the unspoken fear each privately considered.

_Kitty's out there, waiting...unless she's already dead..._

* * *

A/N - Yay! An update! Sorry about the delay - I work as a nanny, so with all the craziness of a new school year, it was difficult to find time to write. Now that the kids are finally settling into their usual routine, hopefully 'me time' will be easier to come by!

Yrch - ::claps delightedly:: Did you _really_ squeal?! I'm so happy to hear that! Scogue stuff is positively alien to me, so it's a huge relief to know I didn't completely screw it up. As for the pairings - I'm a fan of surprises myself. I won't announce them, and if people choose not to read because of that, oh well. I'd be a hypocrite if I said I didn't do the same thing. ;) And yes, still no reason for concern, despite this recent chapter. There will be no Jevan or LoRo in this fic. There will be several triangles, though, and pairings I've never written before. I hope you will approve when they emerge. ::evil grin::

Foenixfyre - Hey grrl! Thanks so much for swinging by to review! Incoherent or not, it was appreciated. Heh heh...glad to know my untutored 'horror abilities' are actually working. ;)

Purity Black - Right _on_! DotD 2004 **ROCKS**! Yes, it's kinda lame, and there's the unavoidable cheeze factor, but I can't help loving it. Just like RE2, it was filmed right here in Toronto, and of course, the updated zombies kick ass! I just got my own umm...perfectly LEGAL copy, and have been watching it religiously for the past two weeks. (I know, I need help).  
As for the BH hooking up with the X-teens - your wish will be granted after the next chapter. ;)

And to anyone else who might be reading - I hope you continue to enjoy! :)


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